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Author of The Man on the 

Box, Hearts and Masks, 

Half a Rpgue,Etc. 

With Illustrations by Will Grefe 

Decorations }rp Franklin Booth 










T0 M<? Ramsdells 

In Memory of 

Many Pleasant Florentine Days 


Thanks are due Ainslee's Magazine for 
permission to republish The Advent of Mr. 
"Shifty" Sullivan. 



CARRINGTON folded the docu 
ment and thoughtfully balanced 
it on his palm. What an ironical 
old world it was! There was a perpen 
dicular wrinkle about his nose, and his 
lips had thinned into a mere line which 
drooped at the corners. The drone of a 
type-writer in the adjoining room sound 
ed above the rattle-tattle of the street 
below. Through the opened windows 
came a vague breath of summer redolent 
of flowers and grasses; for it was but 
eleven o'clock of the morning, and the 
smell of sun-baked brick and asphalt had 
not yet risen through the air. Far beyond 


the smoking, ragged sky-line Carrington 
could see the shifting, glittering river and 
the great ships going down to the sea. 
Presently the ashes from his dead cigar 
fell in a gray cascade down his coat and 
tumbled across his knees, but he gave no 

Ironical old world indeed! Here, sud 
denly and unexpectedly, he found himself 
upon the battle-field of love and duty, 
where all honest men find themselves, 
sooner or later. To pit the heart against 
the conscience, impulse against calcula 
tion! Heigh-ho! Duty is an implacable 
goddess, and those who serve her most 
loyally are most ruthlessly driven. She 
buffets us into this corner and into that, 
digs pitfalls for the hesitant foot, and 
crushes the vacillating. 

As all men will, Carrington set about 
to argue down his conscience ; the heart is 


so insistent a counselor. Why should he 
give up the woman he loved, simply be 
cause duty demanded he should? After 
all, was not duty merely social obligation? 
What was it to him that the sheep were 
sheared? Was it right that he, of all men, 
should divide the house, throw the black 
pall of dishonesty over it, destroy his own 
happiness and hers, when so simple a 
thing as a match would crumble into 
nothingness this monument to one man's 
greed and selfishness? The survival of 
the fittest; if he put aside Self, who would 
thank him? Few, and many would call 
him a fool or a meddler. So many voices 
spoke that he seemed to hear none dis 

He alone had made these astonishing 

discoveries; he alone had followed the 

cunningly hidden trail of the serpent. He 

could stop where he was and none wotild 



be the wiser. To be sure, it was only a 
question of time when the scandal would 
become public through other channels; 
but in that event he would not be held 
responsible for bringing about the cat 
astrophe. Besides, the ways of the ser 
pent are devious and many, and other 
investigators might not come so close to 
the trail. 

He had gone about his investigations 
without the least idea where they would 
lead him. At the beginning he had be 
lieved that the guilty ones were none 
higher than petty officials; but presently 
he found himself going over their heads, 
higher and higher, until, behold! he was 
at the lair of the old serpent himself. A 
client had carelessly dropped a bit of in 
formation, and it had taken seed with 
this surprising result. Henry Cavenaugh, 
millionaire promoter, financier, trust 



magnate, director in a hundred money- 
gathering concerns; Henry Cavenaugh, 
the father of the girl he loved and who 
loved him! Could it be he, indeed? It 
seemed incredible. 

It was not a case of misappropriation 
of funds, such as a man may be guilty of 
when temporarily hard pressed. It was 
a bold and fraudulent passing of divi 
dends that rightfully belonged to the 
investors; of wrongfully issuing state 
ments of bolstered expenses, lack of 
markets, long strikes (promoted by Cave 
naugh and his associates!), insufficient 
means of transportation. An annual divi 
dend of seven per cent, on many mil 
lions had been dishonestly passed over. 
The reports that there would be no divi 
dends encouraged a slump in the listed 
price of the stock, and many had sold 
under par value, thereby netting to Cave- 



naugh and others several millions. And 
the proof of all this lay in his hand! 

It had been a keen hunt. Many and 
many a blind trail had he followed, only 
to come back to the start again. All that 
now remained for him to do was to pass 
this document on to the hands of the in 
trepid district attorney, and justice would 
be meted out to the guilty. 

Her father! The picture of him rose 
suddenly and distinctly in his mind. Tall, 
powerfully built, a hooked nose, keen 
blue eyes, an aggressive chin, a repellent 
mouth, Henry Cavenaugh was the per 
sonification of the modern Croesus. Im 
mutable in purpose, dogged in persever 
ance, a relentless enemy, a Jesuit in that 
the end always justified the means, he 
stood a pillar in the world of finance, 
where there is sometimes justice but never 
any mercy. Thirty-five years before he 


had been a messenger in a stock-broker's 
office. Of his antecedents nothing was 
known until he broke one of the famous 
gold corners in the seventies, when a 
handsome, ruddy-cheeked little Irishman 
bobbed up serenely from nowhere in par 
ticular and claimed to be the great Cave- 
naugh's father. But his proofs were not 
convincing, and when the son showed a 
decided contempt for him, he gently sub 
sided into oblivion and was heard of no 
more. From time to time Carrington 
gathered a small crumb of information 
regarding his sweetheart's grandfather; 
but whenever he broached the subject, 
however tactfully, everybody concerned 
headed the conversation for a different 

Carrington had never laid eyes on the 
old gentleman, and, for all he knew to the 
contrary, he might be a myth. He rea- 



soned that in all probability the grand 
father was illiterate, uncouth, and rather 
an awkward piece of family furniture to 
handle, when the family proper were in 
gratiating themselves into the Chippen 
dales of society. Unfortunately, Mother 
Cavenaugh, good-hearted and amiable in 
her way, had been stung by the bee of the 
climbers, and her one ambition w~: ;o 
establish herself and daughters iii society; 
and had not he, Carrington, come of an 
aristocratic family (poor, it is true), the 
doors of the Cavenaugh manor would 
never have opened to his knock. Even as 
it was, he was persona non grata to the 
millionaire, who was mad for a duke in 
the family. Besides, Cavenaugh had his 
suspicions of any lawyer who grubbed 
outside the breastworks. 

Some doves circled above a church- 
spire a few streets over the way, break- 


ing the sunbeams against their polished 
wings. Finally they settled on the slate 
roof and fell to strutting and waddling 
and swelling their breasts pompously. 
Carrington opened and refolded the docu 
ment, but he did not take his eyes from 
the doves. What should he do? What ill 
wind had blown this thing into his door 
way? Nothing had warned him of the 
impending tangle. Until two days ago 
Cavenaugh was at the other end of the 
world, so far as his investigations at that 
time were concerned. 

He struck a match. The sliver of pine 
flared palely in the sunshine, writhed 
and dropped, black and charred, to the 
floor. He shrugged his shoulders. Chiv 
alry of this sort was not the order of the 
day. There was something stronger than 
the voice of duty, something stronger 
than the voice of the heart; it was the 



voice of pity, which urged its appeal for 
the hundreds of men and women who 
had invested their all in the Cavenaugh 
concerns. The thought of their ultimate 
ruin, should Cavenaugh be permitted to 
pursue his course unchecked, bore heav 
ily upon him. No, he could not do it. 
He must fight, even if he lost his all in 
the battle. It is a fine thing to right a 
wrong. All the great victories in the 
world have been won for others than the 
victors. That Cavenaugh was the father 
of the girl he loved must have no weight 
on the scales of justice. 

Resolutely he thrust the document into 
his coat pocket, closed his desk and re 
lighted his cigar. In that moment he had 
mapped out his plan of action. That very 
night he would lay the whole thing very 
clearly before the girl herself, and what 
ever decision she made, he would stand or 


fall by it, for he knew her to be the soul 
of honor. 

Poor girl I It was a heart-breaking 
business. How in the world should he 
begin, and where should he stop? Ah, 
that was it! He would lay the matter be 
fore her in a manner that would conceal 
the vital nearness of the case, as if it were 
some client of his who was unknown to 
her. And when she had judged the case, 
he would speak the bald truth. It would 
bt a cruel blow, but nevertheless he must 
deal it. She loved her father, and after 
his own peculiar fashion her father loved 
her. She was the only one in the family 
who could wheedle him out of a purpose; 
to the rest of the family his word was law 
immutable. It was very hard, sighed Car- 
rington. For the father he had neither 
pity nor sympathy; there were many ugly 
tales about his financial dealings; but his 


whole heart went out unreservedly to the 

When Carrington had gone to Cave- 
naugh, his heart in his throat, to speak to 
him relative to his daughter's hand, he 
unwittingly knocked off the top of a vol 

"Marry rny daughter?" Cavenaugh 
roared, emphasizing his wrath and dis 
approval with a bang of fist upon palm. 
"My daughter shall marry only among 
her equals, not among her inferiors. A 
king is not good enough for my Kate." 
There was another bang of the fist, de 
cided and final. "A lawyer? Not if I 
know myself. I wouldn't trust a lawyer 
out of sight," bluntly. "Kate shall marry 
a duke or a prince, if I can find one suit 

Carrington would have smiled had the 
moment been less serious. 


"No man can possibly appreciate her 
worth more readily than I, sir," he re 
plied, "or love her more dearly." 

"Love?" with a snort. "Twaddle out 
of story-books!" 

"But you yourself love her." 

"I'm her father," Cavenaugh returned 
complacently, adding a gesture which 
had the effect of describing the fact that 
it was perfectly logical for a father to 
love his daughter, but that it wasn't log 
ical at all for any other male biped to 
love her. 

"I am sorry," said the disheartened 
suitor, rising. "I suppose that after this 
unpleasant interview ..." 

"Oh, you're a decent sort," interrupted 
Cavenaugh generously; "and if you are 
of a mind to behave yourself hereafter, 
you will always find a chair at my table. 
But my daughter is not for you, sir, em- 



phatically not. That is all, sir;" and 
Cavenaugh picked up his evening paper. 

After such a rebuff, most young men 
would have given up; but Carrington 
never gave up till there was no possibility 
of winning. Immediately after the inter 
view he went to the higher court with his 

"Let us have patience," the girl whis 
pered. "I'll undertake to bring him to 


But Carrington went home that night 
without his love for the father increasing 

And so the matter stood at the present 
time. The affair had gone neither for 
ward nor backward. 

Ah, were he less honest, how easily he 
could bring the old curmudgeon to terms ! 
There was that in his pocket which would 
open the way to the altar, quickly enough. 



But Carrington was manly and honest to 
the core, and to him blackmail stood 
among the basest of crimes. Many times 
during the past forty-eight hours the 
tempter had whispered in his ear that 
here was a way out of his difficulties; but 
the young man had listened unmoved. 

During the summer and autumn 
months of the year the Cavenaughs lived 
at their country place over in New Jersey, 
and there Carrington spent the week-ends. 
There were horses to ride, golf and tennis, 
and a Saturday night dance at the Coun 
try Club. To be with the girl you love, 
even if you can't have her, is some com 
pensation. Cavenaugh never joined the 
fetes and sports of the summer colonists, 
but he offered no objections to the fem 
inine members of his household for select 
ing Carrington as their escort for the 
week-ends. Indeed, by now he began to 


consider Carrington as a harmless, sen 
sible, well-groomed young man, who re 
lieved him of all the painful duties to the 
frivolous. If the colonists insisted on 
coupling his daughter's name with Car- 
rington's, let them do so ; when the proper 
moment came he would disillusionize 
them. For himself, he always had some 
good old crony down to while away the 
dull Sundays ; and together they consum 
mated plans that gave the coup de grace 
to many a noble business galleon. This 
particular summer there were no dukes 
or princes floating around unattached, 
and Cavenaugh agreed that it was a com 
mendable time to lay devices by which to 
ambush the winter money. 

There were nights when Cavenaugh 
did not sleep very well ; but of this, more 

Shortly after his determination to tell 


Kate half a truth, Carrington left the of 
fice and made an early train into New 
Jersey. All the way over to the Cave- 
naugh station he was restless and uneasy. 
The fatal papers still reposed in his 
pocket. He had not dared to leave them 
in the office safe; his partner, who had 
had no hand in the investigation, might 
stumble across them, and that was the last 
thing in the world he desired. He knew 
not exactly what to do with them; for 
they burned like fire in his pocket, and 
seemed to scorch his fingers whenever he 
touched them to learn if they were still 
there. A thousand and one absurd sup 
positions assailed him. Supposing, for 
instance, there should be a wreck; suppos 
ing he should be robbed; supposing he 
should leave his vest on the links ; and so 
forth and so forth. It was very depressing. 
If only he stood in the open, unhandi- 


capped ; if only he might throw the gaunt 
let at Cavenaugh's feet the moment they 

Ah, if he had only attended to his own 
affairs! But he hadn't; and his inquisi- 
tiveness had plunged him into a Chinese 
tangle from which there seemed to be no 
exit. But there was an exit; only, if at 
that moment Cassandra had whispered 
the secret into his ear, it would have ap 
pealed to him as the most improbable 
thing under the sun. However, there are 
no trustworthy Cassandras these sordid 
days; a single look into the future costs 
a dollar; and as for Greek choruses, they 
trundle push-carts on the East Side. 

He had broken bread and eaten salt at 
Cavenaugh's table; and now it was de 
creed that he must betray him. It was not 
a pleasant thought. And still less pleas 
ant was the thought of telling Kate (in 


a roundabout fashion, it is true) that her 
father was not an honest man. According 
to financial ethics, what Cavenaugh did 
was simply keen business instinct; noth 
ing more. If you or I should happen to 
bend an odd cornice of the majestic pillar 
of law, we'd be haled off to the county 
jail forthwith; but if we possessed the 
skill to smash the whole fabric or rather, 
to continue the metaphor, the whole pil 
lar, the great world would sit up and ad 
mire us. What are old laws for, anyhow? 
Build you never so wisely your law, there 
will always be some one to come along 
and tack on a nice little amendment, 
subtly undoing in a moment what it took 
years of labor to accomplish. In this in 
stance, Cavenaugh had been careless; he 
had forgotten to introduce his amend 
ment. An infinitesimal grain of sand will 
stop the best regulated clock. The in- 



fallible invariably die on the heels of 
their first victory. 

On leaving the train, Carrington espied 
the Cavenaugh station carriage. The 
coachman was talking to a little wiry old 
man, whose gray eyes twinkled and whose 
complexion was mottled and withered 
like a wind-fall apple. Seeing Carring 
ton draw nigh, the coachman touched his 
hat respectfully, while the little old man, 
who was rather shabbily dressed, stepped 
quickly around the corner of the plat 
form. Evidently he did not wish to be in 
spected at close range. Carrington threw 
his suit-case and golf-bag into the car 
riage, and followed them. Thereupon the 
coachman touched the horses lightly, and 
they started westward at a brisk trot. 

"Who's your friend?" asked Carring 
ton, who, though never familiar, was al 
ways friendly toward his inferiors. 


"He's no friend of mine, sir," answered 
the coachman, with well-bred contempt. 
u Miss Cavenaugh directed me to drive 
you straight to the club, sir." 

"Very well," replied Carrington, light 
ing a cigar and settling back among the 

Immediately he forgot all about the 
shabby old man, and began to inventory 
his troubles. He must hide the papers 
somewhere. All the evidence he had, to 
gether with the names of the witnesses, 
was on his person; for in making the 
whole he had prudently destroyed the 
numerous scraps. If this document fell 
into alien hands, the trouble would double 
itself. He puffed quickly, and the heat of 
the cigar put a smart on his tongue. He 
had nothing to do but wait. 

On the steps of the club's porte-cochere 
he was greeted by Miss Cavenaugh, who 


was simply and tastefully dressed in 
white. If there was a sudden cardiac dis 
turbance in Carrington's breast, the girl's 
fender beauty certainly justified it. The 
fresh color on her cheeks and lips, the 
shining black hair that arched a white 
forehead, the darkly fringed blue eyes, 
the slender, rounded figure, the small feet 
and shapely hands, all combined to pro 
duce a picture of feminine loveliness 
warranted to charm any masculine eye. 
Let the curious question Cavenaugh's an 
tecedents, if they were so inclined, 
thought Carrington; here was abundant 
evidence of what a certain old poet called 
the splendid corpuscle of aristocracy. 

Her sister went by the sonorous name 
of Norah. She was seventeen, a bit of a 
tomboy, but of the same build and ele 
gant carriage that distinguished Kate 
from ordinary mortals ; only Norah's eyes 

were hazel-tinted and her hair was that 
warm brown of the heart of a chestnut- 
bur. She was of merry temperament, 
quick to like or to dislike, and like her 
sister, loyal to those she loved. Both girls 
possessed that uncommon gift in women, 
the perfect sense of justice. You never 
heard them gossiping about anybody; and 
when a veranda conversation drifted to 
ward scandal, the Cavenaugh girls in 
variably drifted toward the farther end 
of the veranda. All the men admired 
them ; they were such good fellows. 

The mother of the girls was, as I have 
remarked, good-natured and amiable, in 
clined toward stoutness, and a willing 
listener to all that was going on. She con 
sidered it her bounden duty to keep in 
formed regarding the doings of her inti 
mate friends, but with total lack of 
malice. At this moment she occupied her 



favorite corner on the club veranda, and 
was engaged in animated tittle-tattle. She 
nodded and smiled at Carrington. 

Norah was playing tennis. She waved 
her racket at the new arrival. Carrington 
was her beau-ideal. 

He hurried into the dressing-room and 
shortly returned in his golf flannels. He 
was a sturdy chap, not at all handsome, 
but possessing a countenance full of strong 
lines. He inspired your trust and confi 
dence, which is far better than inspiring 
your admiration. 

"I am not going to play to-day," said 
Kate, "so I'll follow over the course and 
watch you play. I haven't seen you for a 
whole week; and I can't talk and play, 
too," smiling. 

"Forward, then!" cried Carrington, 
beckoning to his caddy. 

He played a nervous, fidgety game that 

afternoon. Every time he teed his ball the 
document spoke from his pocket with an 
ominous crackle. There was not one bril 
liant stroke to his credit. This puzzled 
the girl, for only the previous week he 
had been runner-up in the annual tourna 
ment for crack amateurs. He made the 
ninth hole indifferently, then turned to 
the girl, smiling whimsically. 

"You are not playing up to your form 
to-day, John," she observed. 

"I admit it," he replied, tossing his club 
to the caddy, who, well versed in worldly 
affairs, serenely shouldered the bag and 
made off toward the club house. "My 
heart isn't in the game, Kate. The fact is, 
I'm in a peck of trouble." He determined 
to tell her at once. There might not be 
another opportunity like this. 

"Why, John!" reproachfully. 

"Oh, it came only yesterday. I haven't 


been hiding it. I'm in a kind of pocket, 
and can't exactly see my way out. I want 
your advice ; and you must be the jury and 
judge rolled into one." 

They were standing on a hill, and far 
away they could see the pale line where 
the shimmering summer sea met the tur 
quoise bowl of heaven. 

"Tell me what your difficulty is, John, 
and I will judge it the best I know how." 

He never knew what a simple, beauti 
ful name John was till it fell from the 
lips of this girl. Many called him Jack; 
but only his mother and this girl called 
him John. He motioned toward the sand 
box, and they sat down. The other play 
ers were well scattered about, out of hear 
ing. He made out his case skilfully 
enough, giving his plaintiff and defend 
ant fictitious names. The thing grew so 
real to him, as he went on, that toward 


the end he rose to the dramatics. The girl 
listened, but with never a glance at him. 
Rather her gaze roved over the dancing 
gray, waters and followed the lonely white 
sail that stood out to sea. And when he 
reached the climax, silence of some dura 
tion fell upon them. 

"Should this man be punished?" he 
asked at length. 

"He is guilty; he has broken two laws, 
the civic and human. Oh, the poor peo 
ple!" pathetically. "They are never at 
peace; the wolf harries them, and the 
jackal; they are robbed, beaten and 
spurned. They are like sheep, not know 
ing how to fight. They arrest a man for 
his poverty; they applaud him for his 
greed. It is all very wrong." 

The sail fell under the shadow of a 
cloud, and they both watched it till it 
flashed into the sunlight again. 


"A woman's intuition is sometimes ab 
normally keen. You are strong enough 
to fight such things without the advice of 
a woman. Is there not something vital to 
me in all this? Is it not ... is it not 
my father, John?" 



CARRINGTON faced her swiftly. 
He had not expected this. There 
was something in her handsome 
eyes that barred the way to subterfuge. 
The lie died unspoken, and he dropped 
his gaze and began to dig up the turf 
with the toe of his shoe. 
"Is it my father, John?" 
"Yes. Oh, Kate," with a despairing 
gesture, "I'm the most miserable fellow 
alive! To think that this should fall into 
my hands, of all hands in the world I" 

"Perhaps it is better so," quietly. 
"Nothing is without purpose. It might 
have come to test your honesty. But you 
are sure, John; it is not guess-work?" 
"All the evidence is in my pocket. Say 


the word, and the wind shall carry it 
down to the sea. Say the word, heart o' 

He made a quick movement toward his 
pocket, but she caught his arm. 

"Do nothing foolish or hasty, John. 
Tearing up the evidence would not undo 
what is done. Sooner or later murder 
will out. If my father is culpable, if in 
his thoughtless greed for money he has 
robbed the poor, he must be made to re 
store what he has taken. I know my fa 
ther; what he has done appears perfectly 
legitimate to him. Can he be put in 

"It all depends upon how well he de 
fends himself," evasively. 

She went on. "I have been dreading 
something like this; so it is no great sur 
prise to me. He is money-mad, money- 
mad; and he hears, sees, thinks nothing 


but money. But it hurts, John; I am a 
proud woman. My grandfather ..." 
Her lips shut suddenly. "Money!" with 
a passionate wave of the hand. "How I 
hate the name of it, the sound of it, the 
thought of it! I love my father," with a 
defiant pride; "he has always been ten 
der and kind to me; and I should not be 
of his flesh and blood had I not the de 
sire to shield and protect him." 

"The remedy is simple and close at 

hand," suggested Carrington gently. 


"Simple, but worthy of neither of us. 
I abhor anything that is not wholly hon 
est. It is one of those strange freaks of 
nature (who holds herself accountable to 
no one) to give to me honesty that is the 
sum total of what should have been evenly 
distributed among my ancestors. If I 
were to tell all I know, all I have kept 
locked in my heart ..." 


"Don't do it, girl; it wouldn't matter 
in the least. You are you ; and that is all 
there is to love. Why, I could not love 
you less if your great-great-grandfather 
was a pirate," lightly. "Love asks no 
questions ; and ancestors worry me not at 
all ; they are all comfortably dead." 

"Not always. But if my perception of 
honor were less keen, I should laugh at 
what you call your evidence." 


"Yes, indeed. I very well understand 
the tremendous power of money." 

"Not more than I," sadly. 

She laughed brokenly. "More than 
you. I can picture to you just what will 
happen." She rose. "There will, of 
course, be a great newspaper clamor; the 
interstate commissioners will put their 
heads together; there will be investiga 
tions by the government. That will be 



the attack. The keenest lawyers are on the 
side of corporations; that is because the 
state is niggard with her pay. Let me out 
line the defense. Father will resign from 
his high office, to be reelected later when 
the public cools off! A new directorate 
will fill the place of the present one. Sud 
denly falsified entries will be discovered ; 
the head bookkeeper will have disap 
peared. All fingers will point to him. He 
will be in South America, having been 
paid several thousand to go there. All 
this will make the passing of the dividend 
perfectly logical. The matter will never 
be tried in court. Money will do all this." 
"My dear little woman, you reason like 
Pythagoras; but," Carrington added 
gravely, "when I undertook to untangle 
this affair, I realized its huge proportions. 
For every redoubt your father has, I have 
an assault, for every wall a catapult, for 



every gate a petard. But, as I said before, 
you have only to say the word, and for the 
present nobody will be any the wiser." 

"If I permitted you to do this, I should 
destroy my faith in both of us. It would 
erect a barrier which would be insur 
mountable. That is not the way out." 

"I have weighed all these things," dis- 

He took the document from his pocket 
and caught it in a way that indicated how 
easily it might be ripped into halves, the 
halves into quarters, the quarters into in 
finitesimal squares of meaningless letters. 

"Once more, shall I, Kate?" 

"No, John. That would only make our 
difficulties greater. But I do ask this one 
favor; put your evidence into the hands 
of a strange attorney, have nothing to do 
with the prosecution ; for my sake." 

"I must have the night to think it over. 



Most of my attacks are not herein writ 
ten ; I dared keep them only in my head." 

"I am very unhappy," said the girl. 

He took her hand and kissed it rever 
ently. He longed to console her, but no 
words he had in mind seemed adequate. 

"Fore!" came lazily over the knoll. 
They were no longer alone. So together 
they wandered slowly back to the club 
house. Tea was being served, and Car- 
rington drank his abstractedly. From 
time to time he joined the conversation, 
but without any heart. Some of the busier 
ladies whispered that it looked this time 
as though Kate had given the young man 
his conge. 

On the way home Norah, with her hu 
morous comment on the weekly budget 
of gossip, saved the situation from any 
possible contretemps. Mrs. Cavenaugh 
was easy-going, but for all that she pos- 



sessed remarkably observant eyes ; and her 
eldest daughter was glad that they were 
occupied elsewhere. 

Kate was very unhappy; her father was 
not honest, and the man she loved had 
come into the knowledge of the fact. Ah, 
how quickly shadow can darken sun 

"What did you make it in to-day, Mr. 
Carrington?" asked Norah. 

"Make what?" he counter-questioned 

"The course, Mr. Goose! What did 
you think I meant?" 

"Oh," lamely, "I made a bad play at 
the beginning, and gave it up." 

By this time they had arrived at the 
gates, and everybody was thankful; Mrs. 
Cavenaugh, because her nose smarted 
with sunburn; Norah, because the gown 
she was to wear at the dance that night 



was new; Kate, because she wanted to be 
alone; and Carrington, because he wanted- 
to learn whether the Angel threw Jacob 
or Jacob threw the Angel. The driver 
and the horses were glad to arrive because 
they were hungry. 

It took the young lawyer some time to 
dress for dinner that night. His usually 
direct mind vacillated between right and 
wrong, wrong and right; and he floated 
from one to the other like an unattached 
cork. He made a dozen annoying blun 
ders in dressing. And when finally the 
pier-glass reflected an irreproachable 
and finished picture, he searched his cast- 
off vest for his growing monster and 
transferred it to the pocket of his coat. 
Monster! Here was no story-monster, 
like the creature of a Frankenstein; it 
was genuine, and was like to turn upon 
him at any moment and rend him. He 



shrugged and proceeded down the stairs. 
There are soliloquies that sometimes leave 
an unpleasant taste behind. So he pinned 
his faith to the banner of the late genial 
and hopeful Micawber: something might 
turn up for the benefit of all concerned. 

The hall and living-room at the Cave- 
naugh manor were one and the same. 
There were bookcases ranging along the 
walls, window-seats, a reading-table and 
an ancient chimney-seat. As Carrington 
turned the first landing he stopped. 

"Father, I think it positively dreadful 
the way you treat poor grandpa." This 
was Norah. 

There was a crackle of a newspaper. 

"Never mind, Norah, darling; your 
grandpa is used to it. It doesn't matter 
at all." 

It was the sight of the last speaker that 
brought Carrington to a stand. Norah's 



grandpa was no less a person than the 
shabbily dressed old man he had seen at 
the station that afternoon. What kind of 
family skeleton in the closet was he that 
they kept him en camera? He coughed 
and went on. 

Norah was plucky, whole-hearted, 
frank and encouraging. 

"Mr. Carrington," she said immedi 
ately, "this is my grandpa." 

Carrington did not hesitate a moment, 
but smiled and thrust out his hand, which 
the other grasped with a questioning air 
of diffidence. 

"Glad to meet you, sir," said Carring 

Cavenaugh fils glanced over the top of 
his paper, scowled, and resumed his read 
ing. Kate hadn't come down yet, so she 
missed this scene. When she did appear, 
there was no visible sign of any previous 


agitation. She and Norah were thorough 

"Why, grandpa!" she cried, extending 
her hand. 

The old man bowed over it and kissed 
it, and his action was lacking neither in 
grace nor gallantry. 

"I happened to be down this way on 
business," said the old man with a covert 
glance at his son, "and thought I'd drop 

"Dinner is served," said the splendid 
butler, as he slid back the doors to the 

The old man looked about him ques- 
tioningly, and Norah slipped her arm 
through his. "You'll have to take me in, 
grandpa," she laughed. 

The old man's eyes shone for a moment, 
an'd he patted her hand. 

"I'm as proud as a king, Norah." 


Now, Carrington could read between 
the lines. It was manifestly plain that 
grandpa was not welcome to Cavenaugh. 
But why? Mrs. Cavenaugh scarcely tol 
erated him. While the girls seldom if 
ever spoke of him, it was evident that both 
held him in their affections. There were 
many strange things going on in the 
Cavenaugh manor; and Carrington en 
tered the dining-room in a subdued state 
of mind. 

By degrees Norah succeeded in draw 
ing the pariah out of himself. Carring 
ton was soon listening to an amazing 
range of adventures. The old man had 
seen Cuba in the filibusters' time, he had 
fought the Canadian constabulary as a 
Fenian, he had been a sailor, and had 
touched the shores of many strange lands. 
Grandpa Cavenaugh was anything but il 
literate. Quite often there was a flash of 


wit, a well-turned phrase, a quotation. 
He had, besides, a comprehensive grasp 
of the politics of all countries. 

Carrington saw at once that his half- 
formed opinion was a house of cards. 
There was no reason in the world why 
they should be ashamed of him, shunt 
him off into the side-track of obscurity, 
and begrudge him a plate at the table. 
Carrington realized that he was very close 
to some peculiar mystery, and that the old 
man's bitterest enemy was his son. 

Throughout the meal the millionaire 
preserved a repelling silence. From time 
to time, when there was laughter, he 
scowled. Once or twice Mrs. Cavenaugh 
essayed to pass an observation across the 
table to him, but a curt nod was all she 
received for her pains. Presently Cave 
naugh dropped his knife on his plate, and 
the pariah retreated meekly into his shell. 



In fact, he looked frightened, as if the 
thought had come to him that he had 
made an irreparable blunder in warming 
under his grandchildren's smiles. 

"Carrington," said Midas, balling his 
napkin and tossing it on the table, "your 
particular branch is corporation law, isn't 

"Yes. The firm has some reputation in 
that branch." Carrington glanced curi 
ously at his host. What was coming now? 
Was it possible that Cavenaugh had in 
some way learned of his discoveries and 
was about to placate him? 

"I believe you handled successfully the 
D. &M. railroad deal?" 

"We won in three courts." 

"Well," continued Cavenaugh, "I've 
been thinking of you to-day. The P. & O. 
counsel has had to give up on account of 
poor health, and Matthewson spoke to 



me yesterday, asking if I knew a man 
who could fill his place. It pays seven 
teen thousand the year." He paused as if 
to let this magnificent salary sink into the 
deepest crevice of Carrington's soul. 
"What would you say to a permanent 
berth like that?" Cavenaugh positively 

Kate stared at her father in astonish 
ment. Was it possible that he was begin 
ning to look favorably upon Carrington? 
Her glance traveled to Carrington. His 
expression she found puzzling. 

"Seventeen thousand!" murmured the 
pariah, rubbing his hands, while his eyes 

Carrington deliberated for a space. 
He was hard put. He did not want to 
refuse this peace-offering, but nothing 
would make him accept it. 

"This is very fine of you. Two years 



ago I should have jumped at the chance. 
But my agreement with my partner makes 
it impossible. I can not honestly break 
my contract within five years." He 
waited for the storm to burst, for Cave- 
naugh was not a patient man. 

"Are you mad?" whispered Kate. r A 
flush of anger swept over her at the 
thought of Carrington's lightly casting 
aside this evident olive-branch. 

"Would you have me accept it?" he re 
turned, in a whisper lower than hers. 

She paled. "I had forgotten," she said, 
with the pain of quick recollection. 

The dinner came to its end, and every 
body rose gratefully, for there seemed to 
be something tense in the air. 

"Seventeen thousand honest dollars!" 
murmured the pariah, tagging along at 
the millionaire's heels. 

Carrington threw him a swift penetrat- 



ing glance ; but the old man was looking 
ecstatically at the tinted angels on the ceil 
ing. The old man might be perfectly 
guileless; but Carrington scented the 
faintly bitter aroma of irony. 

Just before the carriage arrived to con 
vey Carrington and the ladies to the club 
dance, grandpa appeared, hat in hand and 
a humble smile on his face. It was a very 
attractive face, weather-beaten though it 
was, penciled by the onset of seventy 

"You are not going, are you, grandpa?" 
asked Norah. 

"Yes, my child. I should be very lone 
some here alone with your estimable fa 
ther. I'll drop in to-morrow for Sunday 
dinner; that is, if you are not going to 
have company. I am glad that I met you, 
Mr. Carrington." 

"Poor old grandpa!" sighed Norah, 


when the door closed upon him. "He has 
the ridiculous idea that he isn't wanted." 

Nobody pursued the subject and Norah 
began to preen herself. 

An idea came to Carrington. He 
wanted to be rid of his document. He 
spoke to Kate, who nodded comprehen 
sively. She led him into the dining-room. 
In one corner, protected by a low screen, 
was a small safe. This she threw open, 
and Carrington put the envelope into one 
of the pigeon-holes. The safe was abso 
lutely empty, a fact which puzzled him 
not a little. 

"We seldom use this," said the girl, 
reading the vague unspoken question in 
his eyes. "The jewel safe is up-stairs in 
my room." 

"It doesn't matter in the least," he re 
plied, smiling, "so long as I may safely 
rid myself of these obnoxious papers. 


And if you do not mind, I'll leave them 
there till Monday morning. I've thought 
it all out, Kate. A' man's only human, 
after all. I could never prosecute the case 
myself; I'd be thinking of you and the 
bread I have eaten. I'll turn the matter 
over to Challoner, and let him do as he 
thinks best. Of course, I shall be called 
as a witness when the case comes up in 
court, if it ever does." 

She did not reply, but shut the 'door of 
the safe and rose from her knees. 

The south side of the dining-room was 
made up of long colonial windows that 
opened directly upon the lawn. They 
were more like doors than windows. She 
locked each one carefully and drew the 

"Norah is probably growing impatient 
for us," she said. 

With an indescribable impulse he sud- 


denly drew her into his arms and kissed 
her. It might be the last he could ever 

"John!" she murmured, gently disen 
gaging herself. 

"I love you," he said, "and I could not 
help it. Everything looks so dark." 

The clock in the hall chimed the quar 
ter hour after eleven. Cavenaugh was in 
his den. His desk was littered with sheets 
of paper, upon which were formidable 
columns of figures and dollar signs. He 
sat back in his chair and listened. He 
thought he heard a door or window close ; 
he wasn't certain. It was probably one of 
the servants. He bit off the end of a fresh 
cigar and resumed his work. Let the 
young people play golf, if they wanted to, 
and dance and frivol away the precious 
hours ; they would never know the joy of 


seeing one become two, two become four, 
and so on, till the adding grew into the 
ransoms of many kings. Ay, this was to 
live. Oh, the beautiful numerals! Bri 
gade after brigade, corps after corps, they 
marched at a sign from him; an army 
greater than that of kings. To sit in a lit 
tle room, as in a puppet-booth, and juggle 
the policies of the nations! Yes, Kate 
should have a duke and Norah a prince; 
he would show them all some day. Recol 
lecting Carrington, he frowned. Did the 
fellow know anything, that he felt the 
power to refuse an offer such as he had 
made at the dinner-table? Bah! It would 
be like crushing some insect. He deter 
mined that this should be Carrington's 
last visit. His pen moved once more, and 
presently he became lost in his dreams 
of calculation. 

But Cavenaugh's ears had not deceived 


him, however, for he had heard the sound 
of a closing window. A window had been 
closed, but none of the servants had been 
at hand. 

At precisely eleven a man came swiftly 
but cautiously across the lawn. When he 
reached the long windows of the dining- 
room he paused, but not irresolutely. 
There was a sharp rasping sound, fol 
lowed by the uncertain glare that makes 
the light of a dark-lantern separate and 
individual, and a window swung noise 
lessly inward. The room was in total 
darkness. The man wore a short mask, a 
soft felt hat well down over his eyes. He 
cupped his hand to his ear and strained 
to catch any sound. Silence. Then he 
dropped behind the screen, consulted a 
slip of paper by the light of his lantern, 
and with a few quick turns of the combi 
nation-knob opened the door of the safe. 


He extracted the envelope and thrust it 
into his pocket, without so much as a 
glance at its contents. In making his exit, 
the window stuck on the sill. In pressing 
it the lock snapped loudly. This was the 
sound Cavenaugh heard. The burglar ran 
lightly across the lawn and disappeared 
beyond the hedges. And none too soon. 

The Cavenaugh drag rolled over the 
hill and went clattering up to the porte- 

On the way home Carrington, his mind 
still wavering between this expedient and 
that, decided that, after all, he would take 
charge of the papers himself. It didn't 
seem quite fair that Cavenaugh's safe 
should protect his ultimate disgrace. So, 
upon entering the house, he confided his 
desire to Kate, who threw aside her wraps 
and led him into the dining-room. She 
had her own reasons for wishing the pa- 


pers out of the safe. She turned on the 
lights and swirled the combination-knob. 
At this moment Norah came in. 

"What are you doing?" she asked. 

"Mr. Carrington left some valuable pa 
pers in the safe, and he wants them." 

Carrington wondered why Norah 
gazed from him to her sister with so wild 
an expression. 

"Papers?" she murmured. 

Kate opened the door. She sprang to 
her feet in terror and dismay. 

"What is it?" cried Carrington, who 
saw by her expression that something ex 
traordinary had happened. 

"They . . . it is not there!" 

Norah sat down and hid her face on 
her arms. 

Carrington rushed over to the safe, 
stooped and made a hasty examination. 
It had been opened by some one who 



knew the combination! He stood up, a 
cold chill wrinkling his spine. He saw 
it all distinctly. Cavenaugh knew. He 
had known all along. Cavenaugh had 
overheard him speak to Kate, and had 
opened the safe after their departure for 
the club. It was all very cleverly done. 
He knew that Kate was utterly blameless. 
Then it dawned upon him that they ap 
peared as though they accepted the catas 
trophe as not wholly unexpected! To 
what did this labyrinth lead? 

'A rattle of the curtain-rings wheeled 
them about. They beheld Cavenaugh 
himself standing in the doorway. 

"What's the trouble?" he asked, eying 
Carringtort suspiciously. 

Carrington answered him icily. "I left 
some legal documents of great value in 
this safe; they are no longer there." 

Cavenaugh's jaw dropped. He stared 



at Kate, then at Norah. If ever there was 
written on a face unfeigned dismay and 
astonishment, it was on the millionaire's. 
A moment before Carrington would have 
sworn that he was guilty; now he knew 
not what to believe. He grew bewildered. 
There had certainly been a burglar; but 
who was he? 

"Mr. Carrington," said Cavenaugh, 
pulling himself together with an effort, 
"you need have no worry whatever. I 
will undertake to restore your documents. 
I offer you no explanations." He left 
them abruptly. 

The young lawyer concluded to grope 
no longer. Somebody else would have to 
lead him out of this labyrinthine maze. 
All at once there came to him a sense of 
infinite relief. Providence had kindly 
taken the matter out of his hands. 

"Never mind, Kate," he said. "For my 



part, I should be entirely satisfied if I 
never saw the miserable thing again." 

"Father will find it for you." Her eyes 
were dim with tears of shame. 

"What is it, girl?" 

"Nothing that I can explain to you, 
John. Good night." 

When he had gone to his room, Norah 
turned to her sister and sobbed on her 

"Oh, Kate!" 

"What is the matter, child?" 

"I told grandpa the combination!" 


CARRINGTON tumbled out of 
bed at six and threw out the old- 
fashioned green blinds. A warm, 
golden summer morning greeted his eyes, 
and the peaceful calm of Sunday lay upon 
the land. A robin piped in an apple-tree, 
an oriole flashed across the flower-beds, 
and a bee buzzed just outside the sill. A 
brave day! He stepped into his tub, 
bathed, and dressed in his riding-clothes, 
for there was to be a canter down to the 
sea and return before breakfast. From 
the window he could see the groom walk 
ing the beautiful thoroughbreds up and 
down the driveway. There were only two 
this morning; evidently Norah was not 



The Cavenaugh girls had created al 
most a scandal and a revolution when 
they first appeared at Glenwood. People 
had read and talked about women riding 
like men, they had even seen pictures of 
them, but to find them close at hand was 
something of a shock. Yet, when they 
saw with what ease the Cavenaugh girls 
took the hedges, ditches and fences, how 
their mounts never suffered from saddle- 
galls, and, above all, how the two always 
kept even pace with the best men riders, 
opinion veered; and several ladies 
changed their habits. 

Norah, who saw the droll side of things, 
once said that the accepted riding habit 
for women reminded her of a kimono for 
a harp. 

Carrington stole gently down to the 
horses. He had great affection for the 
sleek thoroughbreds. Their ears went 



forward when they saw him, and they 
whinnied softly. He rubbed their velvet 
noses and in turn they nozzled him for 
sugar-loaves. Had it not been for the 
night and the attendant mysteries, his hap 
piness would have been complete. People 
waste many precious moments in useless 
retrospection; so Carrington resolutely 
forced the subject from his mind. One 
thing was certain, the Cavenaughs knew 
who the burglar was ; and there was some 
thing strange in the idea of an empty safe 
in a millionaire's home. Pshaw! He took 
out the expected sugar-loaves and ex 
tended them on both palms. The pair 
lipped his hand and crunched the sweets 
with evident relish. 

"How are they to-day, James?" 
"Fit for twenty miles, straight away or 
'cross-lots, sir. Your mount is feeling his 
oats this morning; he hasn't been out for 



a run since Thursday, sir. I've put the 
curb on him in case he takes it into his 
head to cut up shines. Here comes Miss 
Kate, sir." 

Carrington's pulse rose. Kate was ap 
proaching them. She was pale but serene. 
She smiled a good morning, which took 
in the gentleman and the groom. 

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting." 

"Not a moment; I only just got down 
myself," said Carrington. 

She mounted without assistance and ad 
justed her skirts. The filly began to waltz, 
impatient to be off. 

"To the beach?" Carrington asked, 
swinging into his saddle. 

She nodded, and they started off to 
ward the highway at a smart trot. Once 
there, the animals broke into an easy can 
ter, which they maintained for a mile or 
more. Then Kate drew down to a walk. 


"What a day!" said he, waving his hand 
toward the sea-line. 

There was color a-plenty on her cheeks 
now, and her eyes shone like precious 
stones. There is no exhilaration quite like 
it. She flicked the elders with her crop, 
and once or twice reached up for a ripen 
ing apple. In the air there was the strange 
sea-smell, mingled with the warm scent of 

"I'll race you to the beach!" she cried 

"Done! I'll give you to the sixth tree." 
He laughed. There was really nothing at 
all in the world but this beautiful girl, 
the horses, and the white road that wound 
in and out to the sea. 

She trotted her mount to the sixth tree, 

turned, and then gave the signal. Away 

they went, the horses every bit as eager as 

their riders. With their ears laid back, 



their nostrils wide, their feet drumming, 
they thundered down the road. Carring- 
ton gained, but slowly, and he had to hold 
his right arm as a shield for his eyes, as 
the filly's heels threw back a steady rain 
of sand and gravel. Faster and faster; a 
milk-wagon veered out just in time; fool 
ish chickens scampered to the wrong side 
of the road, and the stray pigs in the or 
chards squealed and bolted inland. It was 
all very fine. And when they struck deep 
tawny sand the animals were neck and 
neck. It was now no easy task to bring 
them to a stop. Carrington's hunter had 
made up his mind to win, and the lithe 
filly was equally determined. As an ex 
pedient, they finally guided the animals 
toward the hull of an ancient wreck; 
nothing else would have stopped them. 

"How I love it!" said Kate breathlessly, 
as she slid from the saddle. "Beauty, you 


beat him, didn't you!" patting the drip 
ping neck of her favorite. 

They tethered the horses presently, and 
sat down in the shade of the hull. 

"Nothing like it, is there, girl?" 

"I hate automobiles," she answered ir 

The old, old sea quarreled murmur- 
ously at their feet, and the white gulls 
sailed hither and thither, sometimes 
breasting the rollers just as they were 
about to topple over into running creamy 
foam. The man and the girl seemed per 
fectly content to remain voiceless. There 
was no sound but the song of the sea: the 
girl dreamed, and the man wondered 
what her dream was. Presently he 
glanced at his watch. He stood up, brush 
ing the sand from his clothes. 

"Half an hour between us and break 
fast, Kate. All aboard!" 

The night before might have been only 
an idle dream. 

So they took the road back. Only the 
sea and the gulls saw the tender kiss. 

The pariah sauntered in at two o'clock 
that afternoon, just as the family were 
sitting down to luncheon. He was a rev 
elation. There was nothing shabby about 
him now. He wore a new suit, spats, a 
new straw hat, and twirled a light bam 
boo. There was something jaunty and 
confident in his air, a bubbling in his eyes ; 
altogether, he was in fine fettle about 
something. He cast aside his hat and cane 
with a flourish. 

"Aha! just in time," he said. "Another 
chair, William." 

The butler sent a dubious glance at his 
master; there was the usual curt nod and 
the frown. So grandpa sat 'down beside 


Norah, whose usual effervescence had 
strangely subsided ; he pinched her eheek, 
and deliberated between the cold ham and 

"A fine day! A beautiful day! A day 
of days!" he cried, surrendering to the 
appetitious lure of both meats. 

Nobody replied to this outburst of ex 
uberance; nobody had the power to. A 
strange calm settled over every one. This 
was altogether a new kind of grandpa. 
There was nothing timid or hesitant here, 
nothing meek and humble; neither was 
there that insufferable self-assurance and 
arrogance of a disagreeable man. Grand 
pa's attitude was simply that of an equal, 
of a man of the world, of one who is con 
fident of the power he holds in reserve; 
that was all. But for all that, he was a sen 
sation of some magnitude. Carrington 
was seized with a wild desire to laugh. 



The truth came to him like an illumina 
tion ; but he wisely held his peace. 

"There is something in the air to-day 
that renews youth in old age; eh, my 
son?" with a sly wink at Cavenaugh. 

Cavenaugh's expression of wonder be 
gan to freeze and remained frozen to the 
end of the meal. So all the honors of con 
versation fell to grandpa, who seemed to 
relish this new privilege. 

"Father," said Cavenaugh, holding 
back his accumulated wrath, "I want to 
see you in my study." 

"Immediately, my son. I was just about 
to make that same request." Grandpa 
looked at Kate, then at Carrington. "I 
suppose you young persons will invite 
poor old grandpa to the wedding?" 

"Father!" This was altogether too 
much for patrician blood. Cavenaugh's 
face reddened and his fists closed omi- 


nously. "You will do me the honor, fa 
ther, not to meddle with my private 
affairs. Kate is my daughter, and she shall 
marry the man it pleases me to accept." 

Carrington felt this cut dart over 
grandpa's shoulder. He stirred uneasily. 

"Oh, if that's the way you look at it!" 
with a comical deprecatory shrug. 
Grandpa touched Carrington on the arm. 
"Young man, do you love this girl? No 
false modesty, now; the truth, and noth 
ing but the truth. Do you love her?" 

"With all my heart!" Carrington felt 
the impulse occult. Something whispered 
that his whole future depended upon his 

"And you, Kate?" 

"I love him, grandpa," bravely. 

"That's all I want to know," said 

Cavenaugh released one of his fists; it 


fell upon the table and rattled things gen 

"Am I in my own house?" he bawled. 

"That depends," answered grandpa 
suavely. "You've got to behave yourself. 
Now, then, let us repair to the secret 
chamber of finance. It is the day of set 
tlement," grimly. 

Mrs. Cavenaugh was gently weeping. 
The dread moment had come, come when 
she had been lulled into the belief that it 
would never come. Kate understood, and 
longed to go to her and comfort her; and 
she trembled for her father, who knew 
nothing of the pit that lay at his feet. 
Carrington dallied with his fork; he 
wished he was anywhere in the world but 
at the Cavenaugh table. The desire to 
laugh recurred to him, but he realized 
that the inclination was only hysterical. 

Cavenaugh was already heading for the 


study. He was in a fine rage. Grandpa 
was close on his heels. At the threshold 
he turned once more to Carrington. 

"You know your Tempest, young man, 
I'm sure," he said. "Well, this is the 
revolt of Caliban Caliban uplifted, as it 

The door closed behind them, and fa 
ther and son faced each other. 

"I'll trouble you for those papers you 
took from the safe last night," said the 
son heavily. 

"Ah, indeed!" said grandpa. 

"At once ; I have reached the limit of 
my patience." 

"So have I," returned grandpa. "Per 
haps you know what these papers are 

"I know nothing whatever, save that 
they belong to Mr. Carrington. Hand 
them over." 


Grandpa helped himself to a cigar and 
sat down. He puffed two or three times, 
eyed the lighted end, and sighed with 

"If you but knew what they were about, 
these papers, you would pay a cool mil 
lion for their possession. My word, it is 
a droll situation ; reads like the fourth act 
in a play. If you have a duke picked out 
for Kate, forget him." 

"She will never marry Carrington!" 
Cavenaugh's voice rose in spite of his ef 
fort to control it. 

"My son, they will hear you," the pa 
riah warned. He blew a cloud of smoke 
into the air and sniffed it. "You never 
offered me this particular brand," re 

"Enjoy it," snapped the other, "for it is 
the last you will ever smoke in any house 
of mine." 



"You don't tell me!" 

"Those papers, instantly!" 

" 'Be it known by these presents, et 
cetera, et cetera,' " said the old man. He 
rose suddenly, the banter leaving his lips 
and eyes, and his jaw setting hard. "You 
had better get your check-book handy, 
my son, for when I'm through with you, 
you'll be only too glad to fill out a blank 
for fifty thousand. I consider myself 
quite moderate. This young Carrington 
is a mighty shrewd fellow; and I'd rather 
have him as a friend than an enemy. He 
has made out his case so strongly that it 
will cost you a pretty penny to escape with 
a whole skin." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"The case of the people versus Cave- 
naugh et al. It concerns the clever way 
in which you and your partners slid un 
der the seven per cent, dividend due your 


investors; which caused a slump in the 
price of the shares, forcing thousands to 
sell their stock; which you bought back 
at a handsome profit. Moloch! The mil 
lions you have are not enough ; you must 
have more. There are about twelve of 
you in all, not one of you worth less than 
three millions. What a beautiful chance 
for blackmail!" 

Cavenaugh stepped back, and his legs, 
striking a chair, toppled him into it. His 
father had become Medusa's head! 

"Aha! That jars you some," chuckled 

It took Cavenaugh some time to recover 
his voice, and when he did it was faint 
and unnatural. 

"Is this true?" he gasped. 

"It is so true that I'll trouble you for 
the check now." 

"Come, father, this is no time for non- 

sense." Cavenaugh waved his hand im 
patiently. "Let me see the document." 

"Hardly. But the moment you place 
the check in my hands, I shall be pleased 
to do so. But there must be no reserva 
tion to have payment stopped." 

"I will not give you a single penny!" 
The mere suggestion of giving up so 
large a sum without a struggle seemed 
preposterous. "Not a penny! And fur 
thermore, I am through with you for 
good and all. Shift for yourself here 
after. Fifty thousand! You make me 

"I shall make you laugh, my son; but 
not on the humorous side." The old man 
reached out his hand and struck the bell. 

"What do you want?" asked Cave 
naugh, mystified. 

"I want the author of the document. I 
propose to take the family skeleton out of 



the closet and dangle it up and down be 
fore the young man's eyes. You will 
laugh, I dare say." 

Cavenaugh fell back in his chair again. 
The door opened and William looked in. 

"You rang, sir?" to Cavenaugh fils. 

"No, William," said Cavenaugh pere 
affably; "I rang. Call Mr. Carrington." 
The butler disappeared. "It is my turn, 
Henry, and I have waited a long time, as 
you very well know. Ha! Sit down, Mr. 
Carrington, sit down." 

Carrington, who had entered, obeyed 

"You left some papers in the dining- 
room safe last night," began grandpa. 

"I was about to ask you to return them," 
replied Carrington, with assumed pleas 

The two Cavenaughs looked at each 
other blankly. Finally grandpa laughed. 



"I told you he was clever!" 

"It is true, then," snarled the million 
aire, "that you have been meddling with 
affairs that in no wise concern you. I 
warn you that your case in court will not 
have a leg to stand on." 

"I prefer not to discuss the merits of the 
case," said Carrington quietly. 

"I have been your host, sir; you have 
eaten at my table." Cavenaugh, as he 
spoke, was not without a certain dignity. 

"All of which, recognizing the present 
situation, I profoundly regret." 

"Good!" said grandpa. "Henry, if you 
had been the general they give you credit 
for, you would have offered Mr. Carring 
ton that seventeen thousand two or three 
years ago. There is nothing so menacing 
to dishonesty as the free lance. Now, lis 
ten to me for a space. We'll come to the 
documentary evidence all in good time. 



I spoke of Caliban uplifted," ironically. 
"For years I have been treated as a pa 
riah, as a beast of burden, as a messenger 
boy, as a go-between to take tricks that 
might have soiled my son's delicate hands. 
Father and son, yes; but in name only. 
Blood is thicker than water only when 
riches and ambition are not touched in 
the quick. This dutiful son of mine could 
easily have elevated me along with him 
self; but he would not do so. He was 
afraid that people might learn something 
of my past, which would greatly hinder 
his advancement. He prospered, he grew 
rich and arrogant; he put his heel on my 
neck, and I dared not revolt. You 
wouldn't believe it, would you, Mr. Car- 
rington, that I was graduated with hon 
ors from Oxford University. I speak 
three tongues fluently, and have a smat 
tering of a dozen others ; am a doctor of 


philosophy, an Egyptologist. But I was 
indolent and loved good times, and so, you 
see, it came about that I fell into evil 
ways. Formerly, I was a burglar by pro 

He stopped, eying Carrington's stupe 
faction. The son gnawed his lips impo- 

"I was a master, after a fashion," re 
sumed the old man, satisfied with his 
denouement. "I committed a dozen splen 
did burglaries. I never left a trail be 
hind. The police sought for me, but did 
not know me either by name or by sight. 
This was the sword my son kept over my 
neck. The slightest rebellion, and he 
threatened to expose me. Oh, I know the 
boy well enough ; he would have done it 
in those days. Once extradited to Eng 
land, thirty years ago, no one would have 
connected our names. Yet he was afraid 



of me; he wasn't sure that at any time the 
old desire would spring up renewed. I 
robbed to gratify my craving for excite 
ment rather than to fill my purse. I made 
an unhappy marriage; something Kate 
nor Norah shall do while I live. Henry 
was clever. He made me an allowance of 
two hundred a month. And how do you 
suppose he arranged the payment? On 
the first day of the month he placed the 
cash in a safe in the house, and changed 
the combination. If I got the money with 
out being caught it was mine; otherwise 
I went hungry. Ingenious idea, wasn't 
it? For I had all the excitement, and none 
of the peril of a real burglary. Henry 
forgot, yesterday, that it was the first of 
the month." 

The millionaire found it impossible to 
remain seated. He rose and paced the 
floor, his brows knit, his hands clenched. 



He was at bay. Carrington felt as if he 
were in the midst of some mad dream. 

"Sometimes I succeeded in opening 
the safe; and sometimes, when luck went 
against me for two or three months, 
Norah tipped me the combination. She 
dared not do it too often. So the months 
went on. Once a month I was permitted 
to visit my grandchildren. My son grew 
richer and richer; for myself, I re 
mained in the valley of humiliation. I 
had no chance. I had never met any of 
my son's friends ; he took good care that 
I did not; so they were in total darkness 
as to my existence. But the ball and chain 
were knocked off last night. Your papers 
are, after all, only an incident. Caliban 
revolts. Mr. Carrington, my son! Oh, I 
am proud of him. I believed the genius 
for robbery was mine. I am a veritable 
tyro beside Henry. Half a dozen mil- 



lions from the pockets of the poor at one 
fell swoop I Where's your Robin Hood 
and his ilk? But it isn't called robbery; it 
is called high finance." 

He applied a match to his dead cigar 
and thoughtfully eyed his son. 

"And there is a good joke on me, weav 
ing in and out of all this. I regularly in 
vested half my allowance in buying 
shares in my son's company, to insure my 
old age. It jarred me when I read the 
truth last night. I hate to be outwitted. 
Henry, sit down; you make me nervous." 

"Well, what are you going to do?" 
asked the son. As he faced his father 
there was something lion-like in his ex 

"Sit down, my son, and I will tell you," 

answered the old man quietly. He knew 

that his son was a fighter, and that to win 

he would have to strike quick and hard. 



Cavenaugh flung himself into his chair. 
At that moment he did not know which 
he hated the most, his father or Carring- 

"First, you will write out that check 
for fifty thousand." 


"Nothing of the sort. For twenty years 
you have kept your heel on my neck. I 
could do nothing; opportunities came 
and I dared not grasp them ; my genuine 
ability was allowed to rust. It is simply 
compensation. Blackmail? I think not. 
I could easily force a million from you. 
But I am and have been for years an 
honest man. And heaven knows how well 
I have paid for my early transgression," 
bitterly. "This hour is mine, and I pro 
pose to use it." 

"What guaranty have I of your good 
faith?" fiercely. 



"My word," calmly. "I have never yet 
broken it." 

Carrington gazed longingly toward the 
door. It was horribly embarrassing. He 
began to realize that Kate's father would 
hate him bitterly indeed, and that his own 
happiness looked very remote. 

Cavenaugh turned to his desk, filled 
out the blank, and passed it to his father, 
who, with scarcely a glance at it, passed it 
back with a negative shake of the head. 

"The official certifying stamp lies on 
your desk; use it." 

There was no getting around this keen- 
eyed old man. He knew every point in 
the game. 

"You will live to regret this," said 
Cavenaugh, his eyes sparkling with 

"I have many things to regret; prin 
cipally that fate made me a father." The 


old man passed the check over to Car- 
rington. "You're a lawyer; does that look 
legal to you?" 

Carrington signified that it did. 

"Now, then, Henry, you will write 
down on official paper your resignation 
as president and director of the General 
Trust Company of America.' You will 
give orders for the restitution of the mil 
lions that were fraudulently added to 
your capital. I am not the least interested 
in what manner the restitutions are made, 
so long as they are made. I am now rep 
resenting the investors. As for your part 
ners, it will be easy for you to impress 
them with the necessity of the action." 

"And if I refuse?" 

"Nothing less than the attorney-gen 
eral. I intend to make this business as 
complete as possible." 

Cavenaugh turned again to his desk. 



He knew his father even as his father 
knew him. He wrote hurriedly, the pen 
sputtering angrily. 

"What else?" with a cold fury. 

Again the old man gave Carrington 
the paper. 

"It is perfectly intelligible," he said. 
He began to feel a bit sorry for Cave- 
naugh junior. 

"Now, those papers," said Cavenaugh 

"I believe they belong to me," inter 
posed Carrington. 

Grandpa smiled. "It all depends." 

"I could easily force you," suggest 

Grandpa smiled again. "Of that I 
haven't the least doubt. Of course, what 
I have is only a copy?" 

"It is the only copy in existence," re 
plied Carrington anxiously. And then a 


flush of shame mantled his cheeks. 
Where was his legal cunning? 

"Ah!" The ejaculation came from 
Cavenaugh junior. 

"There is but one thing more," said 
grandpa urbanely. "I am determined 
that Kate shall be happy. She shall mar 
ry Mr. Carrington before the snow flies. 
It is an excellent policy to keep valuable 
secrets in the family." 

"Give your papers to the attorney- 
general. I'll see you all hanged before 
I'll give my consent!" Cavenaugh roared 
out these words. His patience had truly 
reached the limit of endurance. 

"Softly, softly!" murmured grandpa. 

"I mean it!" con agitata. 

"Ah, well ; what will be, will be. Son, 
I came down here yesterday with alto 
gether a different piece of business in 
mind. The documents I discovered last 


night changed these plans. You own 
rich oil lands in Texas; or, rather, you 
did own them before you sold out to the 
company. The land you sold was not, 
and never had been, legally yours; you 
owned not a single tuft of grass. Govern 
ment land-grab, I believe they call it. It 
is not now a question of refunding money; 
it is a question of avoiding prison. The 
supreme court at Washington can not be 
purchased. It cost me five hundred, 
which I could ill afford, to get a copy of 
the original transfer. The real owner mis 
took me for you, son; that is how I 
learned. Your consent to this marriage; 
or, my word for it, I'll put you where you 
would have put me, had you dared. 
Quick! My patience is quite as tense as 

The collapse of Cavenaugh was total. 
He saw the futility of further struggle. 


Ah! and he had believed all these trans 
gressions securely hidden and forgotten, 
that the fortress of his millions would 
protect him from all attack. Too late he 
realized that he had gone too far with 
his father. There was no mercy in the old 
man's eyes, and Cavenaugh knew in his 
heart that he deserved none. 

"Very sensible," said the retired bur 
glar. 'He folded the check and put it in 
his wallet, while his son covered his face 
with his hands. "Murder will out, even 
among the most pious. I know that what 
has passed between us will be forgotten 
by Mr. Carrington. For myself, I shall 
return to England. I have always had a 
horror of dying in this country. Like 
father, like son; the parable reads truly. 
It was in the blood, Mr. Carrington; it 
was in the blood. But Henry here went 
about it in a more genteel manner." He 



struck the bell. "William, send Miss 
Kate here." 

William bowed. He recognized the 
change; grandpa's voice was full of con 
fident authority. 

Kate entered the study shortly after. 
She had been weeping; her eyes were red. 
Seeing her father's bowed head, she 
sprang to his side like a lioness. 

"What have they been doing to you, 

"Nothing but what is just," softly an 
swered her parent. The little dukes and 
princes faded away as a dream fades. 

"Grandpa ..." she began. 

"Child, it is all settled. The hatchet is 
buried in frozen ground. Your father 
consents to your marriage with Mr. Car- 
rington. It has been a heated argument, 
but he has come around to my way of 
thinking. 'All's right with the world,' as 


Browning says. Bless you, my children, 
bless you!" with tender irony. 

"And now, my papers," said Carring- 
ton, smiling up at the girl reassuringly. 

"And you still wish to marry me?" 
asked the girl, her face burning and her 
eyes moist. 

"I'd marry you if your grandpa was 
Beelzebub himself 1" 

"Here's your papers, young man," said 
grandpa. He passed the envelope across 
the table. 

"What's this?" cried Carrington. 

"It means, my boy," said grandpa, 
"that blood is thicker than water, and 
that I really intended no harm to Henry. 
And then, besides, I like to win when all 
the odds are against me." 

Carrington gently turned the envelope 
upside down. Nothing but burnt paper 
fluttered upon the table. 


TO begin with, I am going to call 
things by their real names. At 
first glance this statement will 
give you a shiver of terror, that is, if you 
happen to be a maiden lady or a gentle 
man with reversible cuffs. But your shiv 
ers will be without reason. Prue may 
read, and modest Prue's mama ; for it isn't 
going to be a naughty story; on the con 
trary, grandma's spring medicines are 
less harmless. Yet there is a parable to 
expound and a moral to point out; but I 


shall leave these to your own discern 

It has always appealed to me as rather 
a silly custom on a story-teller's part to 
invent names for the two great political 
parties of the United States ; and for my 
part, I am going to call a Democrat a 
Democrat and a Republican a Repub 
lican, because these titles are not so hal 
lowed in our time as to be disguised in 
print and uttered in a bated breath. 
There is fortunately no lese-majeste in 

Men inclined toward the evil side of 
power will be found in all parties, and 
always have been. Unlike society, the 
middle class in politics usually contains 
all the evil elements. In politics the citi 
zen becomes the lowest order, and the 
statesman the highest; and, thanks to the 
common sense of the race, these are large- 

ly honest and incorruptible. When these 
become disintegrated, a republic falls. 

Being a journalist and a philosopher, I 
look upon both parties with tolerant con 
tempt. The very nearness of some things 
disillusions us; and I have found that 
only one illusion remains to the newspa 
per man, and that is that some day he'll 
get out of the newspaper business. I vote 
as I please, though the family does not 
know this. The mother is a Republican 
and so is the grandmother; and, loving 
peace in the house, I dub myself a Repub 
lican till that moment when I enter the 
voting-booth. Then I become an indi 
vidual who votes as his common-sense 

The influence of woman in politics is 

no inconsiderable matter. The great 

statesman may flatter himself that his 

greatness is due to his oratorical powers ; 



but his destiny is often decided at the 
breakfast-table. Why four-fifths of the 
women lean toward Republicanism is 
something no mere historian can analyze. 

In my town politics had an evil odor. 
For six years a Democrat had been mayor, 
and for six years the town had been plun 
dered. For six years the Republicans had 
striven, with might and main, to regain 
the power . . . and the right to 
plunder. It did not matter which party 
ruled, graft (let us omit the quotation 
marks) was the tocsin. The citizens were 
robbed, openly or covertly, according to 
the policy of the party in office. There 
was no independent paper in town; so, 
from one month's end to another it was 
leaded editorial vituperation. Then Cali 
ban revolted. An independent party was 
about to be formed. 

The two bosses, however, were equal to 



the occasion. They immediately hustled 
around and secured as candidates for the 
mayoralty two prominent young men 
whose honesty and integrity were unim 
peachable. Caliban, as is his habit, 
sheathed his sword and went back to his 
bench, his desk, or whatever his occupa 
tion was. 

On the Republican side they nominated 
a rich young club-man. Now, as you will 
readily agree, it is always written large 
on the political banner that a man who is 
rich has no incentive to become a grafter. 
The public is ever willing to trust its 
funds to a millionaire. The Democrats, 
with equal cunning, brought forward a 
brilliant young attorney, whose income 
was rather moderate but whose ability 
and promise were great. The Democratic 
organs hailed his nomination with de 



"We want one of the people to repre 
sent us, not one of the privileged class." 
You see, there happened to be no rich 
young Democrat available. 

These two candidates were close per 
sonal friends. They had been chums from 
boyhood and had been graduated from 
the same college. They belonged to the 
same clubs, and were acknowledged to be 
the best horsemen in town. As to social 
prominence, neither had any advantage 
over the other, save in the eyes of matrons 
who possessed marriageable (and extrav 
agant) daughters. Williard, the Repub 
lican nominee, was a handsome chap, 
liberal-minded and generous-hearted, 
without a personal enemy in the world. I 
recollect only one fault: he loved the 
world a little too well. The opposition 
organs, during the heat of the campaign, 
dropped vague hints regarding dinners to 



singers and actresses and large stakes in 
poker games. Newcomb, his opponent, 
was not handsome, but he had a fine, 
clean-cut, manly face, an intrepid eye, a 
resolute mouth, and a tremendous ambi 
tion. He lived well within his income, 
the highest recommendation that may be 
paid to a young man of these days. 

He threw himself into the fight with 
all the ardor of which his nature was ca 
pable; whereas Williard was content to 
let the machine direct his movements. 
The truth is, Williard was indifferent 
whether he became mayor or not. To 
him the conflict was a diversion, a new 
fish to Lucullus; and when the Demo 
cratic organs wrote scathing editorials 
about what they termed his profligate ca 
reer, he would laugh and exhibit the 
articles at the club. It was all a huge 
joke. He made very few speeches, and at 


no time could he be forced into the for 
eign districts. He complained that his 
olfactory nerve was too delicately edu 
cated. The leaders swallowed their ran 
cor; there was nothing else for them to 
do. In Williard's very lack of ambition 
lay his strength. Poverty would have 
made a great man out of him; but riches 
have a peculiar way of numbing the ap 
preciation of the greater and simpler 
things in life. 

Newcomb went everywhere; the Poles 
hurrahed for him, the Germans, the Irish, 
the Huns and the Italians. And he made 
no promises which he did not honestly in 
tend to fulfil. To him the fight meant 
everything; it meant fame and honor, a 
comfortable addition to his income, and 
Washington as a finality. He would puri 
fy the Democrats while he annihilated 
the pretensions of the Republicans. He 



was what historians call an active 
dreamer, a man who dreams and then 
goes forth to accomplish things. His per 
sonality was engaging. 

Besides all this (for the secret must be 
told) Newcomb was in love and wished 
to have all these things to lay at the feet 
of his beloved, even if she returned them. 
You will regularly find it to be true that 
the single man is far more ambitious than 
his married brother. The latter invaria 
bly turns over the contract to his wife. 

Williard was deeply in love, too, with 
Senator Gordon's lovely daughter, and 
Senator Gordon was that mysterious 
power which directed the Republican 
forces in his section of the state. So you 
may readily believe that Newcomb was 
forced to put up a better fight than Wil 
liard, who stood high in Senator Gor 
don's favor. The girl and the two young 


men had been friends since childhood, 
and nobody knew whether she cared for 
either of them in the way they desired. 
Everybody in town, who was anybody, 
understood the situation; and everybody 
felt confident that Williard was most 
likely to win. The girl never said any 
thing, even to her intimate friends; but 
when the subject was brought up, she 
smiled in a way that dismissed it. 

Such was -the political situation at the 
beginning of the municipal campaign. 
There have been like situations in any 
number of cities which boast of one hun 
dred thousand inhabitants or more; per 
haps in your town, and yours, and yours. 
That bugaboo of the politician, reform, 
brings around this phenomenon about 
once in every eight years. For a while the 
wicked ones promise to be good, and you 
will admit that that helps. 



It was amusing to follow the newspa 
pers. They vilified each other, ripped to 
shreds the character of each candidate, 
recalled boyhood escapades and magni 
fied them into frightful crimes, and de 
clared in turn that the opposition boss 
should land in the penitentiary if it took 
all the type in the composing-rooms to 
do it. What always strikes me as odd is 
that, laughter-loving people that we are, 
nobody laughs during these foolish pe 
riods. Instead, everybody goes about, 
straining his conscience and warping his 
common-sense into believing these flimsy 
campaign lies, these outrageous political 

When Williard and Newcomb met at 
the club, at the Saturday-night luncheons, 
they avoided each other tactfully, each 
secretly longing to grasp the other's hand 
and say: "Don't believe a word of it, old 


boy; it's all tommy- rot." But policy held 
them at arm's length. What would the 
voters say if they heard that their respect 
ive candidates were hobnobbing at a pri 
vate club? Newcomb played billiards 
in the basement while Williard played a 
rubber at whist up stairs; and the Satur 
day rides out to the country club became 
obsolete. Only a few cynics saw the droll 
side of the situation; and they were confi 
dent that when the election was over the 
friendship would be renewed all the more 
strongly for the tension. 

One night, some weeks before the elec 
tion, Williard dined alone with the sen 
ator at the Gordon home. Betty Gordon 
was dining elsewhere. With the cognac 
and cigars, the senator drew out a slip of 
paper, scrutinized it for a space, then 
handed it to his protege. 

"That's the slate. How do you like it?" 


Williard ran his glance up and down 
the columns. Once he frowned. 

"What's the matter?" asked the senator 

"I do not like the idea of Matthews for 
commissioner of public works. He's a 
blackleg there's no getting around that. 
He practically runs that faro-bank above 
his down-town saloon. Can't you put 
some one else in his place?" 

The senator flipped the ash from the 
end of his cigar. 

"Honestly, my boy, I agree with your 
objection; but the word is given, and if 
we turn him down now, your friend New- 
comb will stand a pretty fair show of be 
ing the next mayor." 

"You might get a worse one," Williard 
laughed. "Jack is one of the finest fel 
lows in the world," loyally. 

"Not a bit of doubt; but politically," 


said the senator, laughing, "he is a rascal, 
a man without a particle of character, 
and all that. But personally speaking, I 
would that this town had more like him. 
Win or lose, he will always be welcome in 
this house. But this Matthews matter; 
you will have to swallow him or be swal 

"He's a rascal." 

"Perhaps he is. Once you are elected, 
however, you can force him out, and be 
hanged to him. Just now it would be ex 
tremely dangerous. My boy, politics has 
strange bed-fellows, as the saying goes. 
These men are necessary; to fight them is 
to cut your own throat. No one knows 
just how they get their power; but one 
morning you will wake up and find them 
menacing you, and you have to placate 
them and toss them sops." 

"I might at least have been consulted." 


"I appreciated your antagonism be 
forehand. Politics is a peculiar business. 
A man must form about himself a shell 
as thick as a turtle's, or his feelings are 
going to be hurt. Now, if you would like 
to change any of these smaller offices, the 
health department doesn't matter. What 
"do you say?" 

"Oh, if Matthews remains on the slate, 
I do not care to alter the rest of it. But 
I warn you that I shall get rid of him at 
the earliest opportunity." 

"Just as you like." 

The senator smiled covertly. Matthews 
was one of his henchmen in the larger 
matters of state. His name had been the 
first to appear on the slate, and the sena 
tor was determined that it should remain 
there. Not that he had any liking for the 
man; simply he was one of the wheels 
which made the machine run smoothly. 


The senator knew his power of persua 
sion; he knew Williard's easy-going 
nature; but he also knew that these easy 
going persons are terribly stubborn at 
times. He was obliged to hold on to 
Matthews. The gubernatorial campaign 
was looming up for the ensuing year, and 
the senator was curious to learn the real 
power that went with the seal of a gov 
ernor of a first-class state. 

There fell an intermission to the con 
versation. Williard smoked thoughtfully. 
He recalled the years during which he 
had accepted the generous hospitality of 
this house, and the love he held for the 
host's daughter. Only since his return 
from abroad had he learned the strength 
of his sentiment. Heretofore he had 
looked upon the girl as a sister, jolly, tal 
ented, a fine dancer, a daring rider, a 
good comrade. He had been out of the 


country for three years. On his return he 
had found Betty Gordon a beautiful 
woman, and he had silently surrendered. 
As yet he had said nothing, but he knew 
that she knew. Yet he always saw the 
shadow of Newcomb, old Jack New- 
comb. Well, let the best man win! 

"I can find a way to dispose of Mat 
thews," he said finally. 

"I dare say." 

But Williard did not know the tenacity 
with which some men cling to office. The 
senator did. 

Here the servant ushered in two lieu 
tenants of the senator's. One was an ex- 
consul and the other was the surveyor of 
customs, who was not supposed to dabble 
in local politics. 

"Everything is agreeable to Mr. Wil 
liard," the senator answered in reply to 
the questioning look of his subordinates. 
1 06 


"He vows, however, that he will shake 
Matthews as soon as he can get the 

The new arrivals laughed. 

"We'll put you through, young man," 
said the ex-consul ; "and one of these fine 
days we shall send you to France. That's 
the place for a man of your wit and 

Williard smiled and lighted a fresh 
cigar. He did possess the reputation of 
being a clever wit, and in his secret heart 
he would much prefer a consulate or a 
secretaryship at the French embassy. He 
thoroughly detested this indiscriminate 
hand-shaking which went with local poli 

But Matthews stuck in his gorge, and 

he wondered if Newcomb was going 

through any like ordeal, and if Newcomb 

would submit so readily. . . . Why 



the deuce didn't Betty return? It was al 
most nine o'clock. 

Presently her sunny countenance ap 
peared in the doorway, and Williard 
dropped his cigar joyfully and rose. It 
was worth all the politics in the world! 

"Gentlemen, you will excuse me," he 

"Go along!" the senator cried jovially. 
"We can spare you." 

As indeed they very well could! 

In a minute Williard was in the music- 

"I really do not know that I ought to 
shake hands with you, Dick," began Bet 
ty, tossing her hat on the piano. "You 
have deceived me for years." 

"Deceived you! What do you mean?" 
mightily disturbed. 

"Wait a moment." She brought forth a 
paper. "Sit down in front of me. This is 


going to be a court of inquiry, and your 
sins shall be passed in review." He 
obeyed meekly. "Now listen," the girl 
went on, mischief in her eyes ; "this paper 
says horrid things about you. It claims 
that you have given riotous dinners to 
actresses and comic-opera singers. I clas 
sify them because I do not think comic- 
opera singers are actresses." 

"Rot!" said Williard, crossing his legs 
and eying with pleasure the contours of 
her face. "Jolly rot!" 

"You mustn't say 'jolly' in this coun 
try; it's English, and they'll be accusing 
you of it." 

"Well, bally rot; how will that go?" 

"That isn't very pretty, but it will pass. 
Now, to proceed. They say that your pri 
vate life is profligate." 

"Oh, come now, Betty 1" laughing diffi 


"They say that you gamble at poker 
and win and lose huge sums." 

"Your father plays poker in Washing 
ton; I've seen him." 

"He's not on trial; you are. Further 
more," went on the girl, the twinkle going 
from her eye, leaving it searching yet un 
fathomable, "this editor says that you are 
only a dummy in this game of politics, 
and that once you are mayor, your signa 
ture will be all that will be required of 
you. That is to say, you will be nothing 
but a puppet in the hands of the men 
who brought about your election." 

Williard thought of Matthews, and the 
smile on his lips died. 

"Now, Dick, this paper says that it 
seeks only the truth of things, and admits 
that you possess certain engaging quali 
ties. What am I to believe?" 

"Betty, you know very well that they'll 


have me robbing widows before elec 
tion." He was growing restless. He felt 
that this trial wasn't all play. "If you 
don't mind, I'd rather talk of something 
else. Politics, politics, morning, noon and 
night until my ears ache!" 

"Or burn," suggested the girl. "The 
things they say about your private life I 
don't care for them. I know that they are 
not truths. But the word 'puppet' annoys 
me." She laid aside the paper. 

"Have I ever acted like a dummy, Bet 
ty? In justice to me, have I?" He was 

"Not in ordinary things." 

"No one has ever heard that I broke a 


"Or that I was cowardly." 

"No, no!" 

"Well, if I am elected, I shall fool cer- 


tain persons. I am easy-going; I confess 
to that impeachment; but I have never 
been crossed successfully." 

"They'll know how to accomplish their 
ends without crossing you. That's a part 
of the politician's business." 

"If I am elected, I'll study ways and 
means. Hang it, I wasn't running after 
office. They said that they needed me. As 
a property owner I had to surrender. I 
am not a hypocrite ; I never was. I can't 
go honestly among the lower classes and 
tell them that I like them, shake their 
grimy hands, hobnob with them at cau 
cuses and in gloomy halls. I am not a pol 
itician; my father was not before me; it 
isn't in my blood. I haven't the necessary 
ambition. Newcomb's grandfather was 
a war governor; mine was a planter in 
the South. Now, Newcomb has ambi 
tion enough to carry him to the presi- 


dency; and I hope he'll get it some day, 
and make an ambassador out of me. 
Sometimes I wish I wasn't rich, so that I 
might enjoy life as some persons do. To 
have something to fight for constantly! I 
am spoiled." 

He wheeled his chair toward the fire 
and rested his elbows on his knees. 

"He's very handsome," thought the 
girl ; but she sighed. 


THAT same evening Newcomb 
and McDermott, the Democratic 
leader, met by appointment in 
McDermott's law offices. McDermott 
was a wealthy steel-manufacturer who 
had held various state and national of 
fices. As a business man his policy 
was absolute honesty. He gave liberal 
wages, met his men personally, and ad 
justed their differences. There were as 
many Republicans as Democrats in his 
employ. Politics never entered the shop. 
Every dollar in his business had been 
honestly earned. He was a born leader, 
kindly, humorous, intelligent. But once 
he put on his silk hat and frock coat, 
a metamorphosis, strange and incompre- 


hensible, took place. He became alto 
gether a different man; cold, purposeful, 
determined, bitter, tumbling over obsta 
cles without heart or conscience, using all 
means to gain his devious ends; scheming, 
plotting, undermining this man or elevat 
ing that, a politician in every sense of the 
word; cunning, astute, long-headed, far- 
seeing. He was not suave like his old 
enemy, the senator; he was blunt because 
he knew the fullness of his power. But 
for all his bluntness, he was, when need 
said must, a diplomat of no mean order. 
If he brought about a shady election, he 
had the courage to stand by what he had 
done. He was respected and detested 

The present incumbent in the city hall 
was no longer of use to him. He was wise 
enough to see that harm to his power 
would come about in case the reform 



movement got headway; he might even 
be dethroned. So his general's eye had 
lighted on Newcomb, as the senator's had 
lighted on Williard; only he had mis 
taken his man, whereas the senator had 

"My boy," he began, "I'm going to 
lecture you." 

"Go ahead," said Newcomb. "I know 
what the trouble is. I crossed out Mr. 
Murphy's name from the list you fixed 
up for my inspection." 

"And his name must go back," smil 
ing. "We can't afford to turn him down 
at this late day." 

"I can," said the protege imperturba- 
bly and firmly. 

For a moment their glances met and 

"You must always remember the wel 
fare of the party," gently. 


"And the people," supplemented the 
admonished one. 

"Of course," with thin lips. "But 
Murphy's name must stand. We depend 
upon the eighth ward to elect you, and 
Murphy holds it in his palm. Your 
friend Williard will be forced to accept 
Matthews for the same reason. It's a 
game of chess, but a great game." 

"Matthews? I don't believe it. Wil 
liard would not speak to him on the street, 
let alone put him on the ticket." 

"Wait and see." 

"He's a blackleg, a gambler, worse 
than Murphy." 

"And what is your grievance against 
Murphy? He has always served the party 

"Not to speak of Mr. Murphy." 

"What has he done?" 

"He has sold his vote three times in the 


common council. He sold it once for two 
thousand dollars in that last pavement 
deal. I have been rather observant. Let 
him remain alderman; I can not see my 
way clear to appoint him to a position in 
the city hall." 

McDermott's eyes narrowed. "Your 
accusations are grave. If Murphy learns, 
he may make you prove it." 

Newcomb remained silent for a few 
minutes, his face in thoughtful repose; 
then having decided to pursue a certain 
course, he reached into a pigeon-hole of 
his desk and selected a paper which he 
gave to McDermott. The latter studied 
the paper carefully. From the paper his 
glance traveled to the face of the young 
man opposite him. He wondered why he 
hadn't taken more particular notice of the 
cleft chin and the blue-gray eyes. Had he 
made a mistake? Was the young fellow's 


honesty greater than his ambition? Mc- 
Dermott returned the paper without com 

"Is that proof enough?" Newcomb 
asked, a bit of raillery in his tones. 

"You should have told me of this long 

"I hadn't the remotest idea that Mur 
phy's name would turn up. You can very 
well understand that I can not consider 
this man's name as an appointee." 

"Why hasn't it been turned over to the 
district attorney?" 

"The plaintiff is a patient man. He 
left it to me. It is a good sword, and I 
may have to hold it over Mr. Murphy's 

McDermott smiled. 

"The Democratic party in this county 
needs a strong tonic in the nature of a 
clean bill. I want my appointees men of 


high standing; I want them honest; I 
want them not for what they have done, 
but what they may do." 

McDermott smiled again. "I have 
made a mistake in not coming to you 
earlier. There is a great future for a man 
of your kidney, Newcomb. You have a 
genuine talent for politics. You possess 
something that only a dozen men in a 
hundred thousand possess, a tone. Words 
are empty things unless they are backed 
by a tone. Tone holds the auditor, con 
vinces him, directs him if by chance he is 
wavering. You are a born orator. Miller 
retires from Congress next year. His use 
fulness in Washington has passed. How 
would you like to succeed him?" 

Insidious honey! Carrington looked 
out of the window. Washington! A seat 
among the Seats of the Mighty! A torch 
light procession was passing through the 
1 20 


street below, and the noise of the fife and 
drum rose. The world's applause; the 
beating of hands, the yells of triumph, the 
laudation of the press the world holds 
no greater thrill than this. Art and liter 
ature stand pale beside it. But a worm 
gnawed at the heart of this rose, a canker 
ate into the laurel. Newcomb turned. 
He was by no means guileless. 

"When I accepted this nomination, I 
did so because I believed that the party 
was in danger, and that, if elected, I 
might benefit the people. I have re 
mained silent; I have spoken but little of 
my plans; I have made few promises. 
Mr. McDermott, I am determined, first 
and foremost, to be mayor in all the mean 
ing of the word. I refuse to be a figure 
head. I have crossed out Murphy's name 
because he is a dishonest citizen. Yes, I 
am ambitious ; but I would forego Wash- 


ington rather than reach it by shaking 
Murphy's hand." The blood of the old 
war-governor tingled in his veins at that 

"It must be replaced," quietly. 

"In face of that document?" 

"In spite of it." 

"I refuse!" 

"Listen to reason, my boy; you are 
young, and you have to learn that in poli 
tics there's always a bitter pill with the 
sweet. To elect you I have given my word 
to Murphy that he shall have the office." 

"You may send Mr. Murphy to me," 
said Newcomb curtly. "I'll take all the 

"This is final?" 

"It is. And I am surprised that you 
should request this of me." 

"He will defeat you." 

"So be it." 






McDermott was exceedingly angry, 
but he could not help admiring the young 
man's resoluteness and direct honesty. 

"You are making a fatal mistake. I 
shall make an enemy of the man, and I 
shall not be able to help you. I have a 
great deal at stake. If we lose the eighth, 
we lose everything, and for years to 


"Perhaps. One dishonest step leads to 
another, and if I should sanction this man, 
I should not hesitate at greater dishon 
esty. My honesty is my bread and butter 
. . . and my conscience." 

"Corporations have no souls; politics 
has no conscience. Williard ..." 

"My name is Newcomb," abruptly. 
"In a matter of this kind I can not permit 
myself to be subjected to comparisons. 
You brought about my present position in 
municipal affairs." 



"We had need of you, and still need 
you," confessed the other reluctantly. 
"The party needs new blood." 

"You are a clever man, Mr. McDer- 
mott; you are a leader; let me appeal to 
your better judgment. Murphy is a 
blackguard, and he would be in any party, 
in any country. In forcing him on me, 
you rob me of my self-respect." 

McDermott shrugged. "In this case he 
is a necessary evil. The success of the 
party depends upon his good will. Lis 
ten. Will you find, in all this wide land, 
a ruling municipality that is incorrupt? 
Is there not a fly in the ointment which 
ever way you look? Is not dishonesty 
fought with dishonesty; isn't it corrup 
tion against corruption? Do you believe 
for a minute that you can bring about this 
revolution? No, my lad; no. This is a 
workaday world; Utopia is dreamland. 


You can easily keep your eye on this man. 
If he makes a dishonest move, you can 
find it in your power to remove him ef 
fectually. But I swear to you that he is 
absolutely necessary." 

"Well, I will assume the risk of his dis 

"Show him your document, and tell 
him that if he leaves you in the lurch at 
the polls, you'll send him to prison. 
That's the only way out." McDermott 
thought he saw light. 

"Make a blackmailer of myself? 

"I am sorry." McDermott rose. "You 
are digging a pit for a very bright fu 

"Politically, perhaps." 

"If you are defeated, there is no pos 
sible method of sending you to Washing 
ton in Miller's place. You must have 


popularity to back you. I have observed 
that you are a very ambitious young man." 

"Not so ambitious as to obscure my 
sense of right." 

"I like your pluck, my boy, though it 
stands in your own light. I'll do all I can 
to pacify Murphy. Good night and good 
luck to you." And McDermott made his 

Newcomb remained motionless in his 
chair, studying the night. So much for 
his dreams! He knew what McDermott's 
"I'll do what I can" meant. If only he 
had not put his heart so thoroughly into 
the campaign! Was there any honesty? 
Was it worth while to be true to oneself? 
Murphy controlled nearly four hundred 
votes. For six years the eighth ward had 
carried the Democratic party into vic 
tory. Had he turned this aside? For 
years the elections had been like cheese- 



parings; and in ten years there hadn't 
been a majority of five hundred votes on 
either side. If Murphy was a genuine 
party man, and not a leech, he would 
stand square for his party and not con 
sider personal enmity. What would he do 
when he heard from McDermott that he 
(Newcomb) had deliberately crossed him 
off the ticket of appointees? 

From among some old papers in a 
drawer Newcomb produced the portrait 
of a young girl of sixteen in fancy dress. 
When he had studied this a certain length 
of time, he took out another portrait: it 
was the young girl grown into superb 
womanhood. The eyes were kind and 
merry, the mouth beautiful, the brow fine 
and smooth like a young poet's, a nose 
with the slightest tilt; altogether a high 
bred, queenly, womanly face, such as 
makes a man desire to do great things in 


the world. Newcomb had always loved 
her. He had gone through the various 
phases: the boy, the diffident youth, the 
man. (Usually it takes three women to 
bring about these changes!) There was 
nothing wild or incoherent in his love, 
nothing violent or passionate; rather the 
serene light, the steady burning light, 
that guides the ships at sea ; constant, en 
during, a sure beacon. 

As he studied the face from all angles, 
his jaws hardened. He lifted his chin de 
fiantly. He had the right to love her; he 
had lived cleanly, he had dealt justly to 
both his friends and his enemies, he owed 
no man, he was bound only to his mother, 
who had taught him the principles of 
manly living. He had the right to love 
any woman in the world. . . . And 
there was Williard handsome, easy-go 
ing old Dick! Why was it written that 


their paths must cross in everything? Yes, 
Dick loved her, too, but with an affection 
that had come only with majority. Wil- 
liard had everything to offer besides. 
Should he step down and aside for his 
friend? Did friendship demand such a 
sacrifice? No! Let Williard fight for her 
as he (Newcomb) intended to fight for 
her; and if Williard won, there would be 
time then to surrender. 

It was almost twelve when the scrub 
woman aroused him from his reveries. 
'He closed his desk and went home, his 
heart full of battle. He would put up the 
best fight that was in him, for love and 
for fame; and if he lost he would still 
have his manhood and self-respect, which 
any woman might be proud to find at her 
feet, to accept or 'decline. He would go 
into Murphy's own country and fight him 
openly and without secret weapons. He 


knew very well that he held it in his 
power to coerce Murphy, but that wasn't 

Neither of the candidates slept well 
that night. 

So the time went forward. The second 
Tuesday in November was but a fortnight 
off. Newcomb fought every inch of 
ground. He depended but little, if any, 
upon McDermott's assistance, though 
that gentleman came gallantly to his res 
cue, as it was necessary to save his own 
scalp. It crept into the papers that there 
was a rupture between Murphy and the 
Democratic candidate. The opposition 
papers cried in glee ; the others remained 
silent. Murphy said nothing when ques 
tioned; he simply smiled. Newcomb 
won the respect of his opponents. The la 
boring classes saw in him a Moses, and 


they hailed him with cheers whenever 
they saw him. 

There were many laughable episodes 
during the heat of the campaign; but 
Newcomb knew how and when to laugh. 
He answered questions from the plat 
form, and the ill-mannered were invaria 
bly put to rout by his good-natured wit. 
Once they hoisted him on top of a bar 
in an obscure saloon. His shoulders 
touched the gloomy ceiling, and he was 
forced to address the habitues, with his 
head bent like a turtle's, his nose and eyes 
offended by the heat and reek of kerosene 
and cheap tobacco. They had brought 
him there to bait him; they carried him 
out on their shoulders. To those who 
wanted facts he gave facts; to some he 
told humorous stories, more or less ap 
plicable; and to others he spoke his sin 
cere convictions. 

Meantime Williard took hold of af 
fairs, but in a bored fashion. He did the 
best he knew how, but it wasn't the best 
that wins high place in the affections of 
the people. 

The betting was even. 

Election day came round finally one 
of those rare days when the pallid ghost 
of summer returns to view her past victo 
ries, when the broad wings of the West 
go a-winnowing the skies, and the sun 
shines warm and grateful. On that morn 
ing a change took place in Newcomb's 
heart. He became filled with dread. 
After leaving the voting-polls early in the 
morning, he returned to his home and 
refused to see any one. He even had the 
telephone wires cut. Only his mother saw 
him, and hovered about him with a thou 
sand kindly attentions. At the door she 
became a veritable dragon ; not even tele- 


graph messengers could pass her or 
escape her vigilance. 

At six in the evening Newcomb or 
dered around his horse. He mounted and 
rode away into the hill country south of 
the city, into the cold crisp autumn air. 
There was fever in his veins that needed 
cooling; there were doubts and fears in 
his mind that needed clearing. He want 
ed that sense of physical exhaustion which 
makes a man indifferent to mental blows. 

The day passed and the night came. 
Election night! The noisy, good-natured 
crowds in the streets, the jostling, snail- 
moving crowds! The illuminated canvas- 
sheets in front of the newspaper offices! 
The blare of horns, the cries, the yells, the 
hoots and hurrahs! The petty street 
fights! The stalled surface-cars, the 
swearing cabbies, the venders of horns 
and whistles, the newsboys hawking their 



extras! It is the greatest of all spectacular 
nights; humanity comes out into the open. 

The newspaper offices were yellow 
with lights. It was a busy time. There 
was a continuous coming and going of 
messengers, bringing in returns. The 
newspaper men took off their coats and 
rolled up their sleeves. Figures, figures, 
thousands of figures to sift and resift! 
Filtering through the various noises was 
the maddening click of the telegraph in 
struments. Great drifts of waste paper 
littered the floors. A sandwich man 
served coffee and sandwiches. The chief 
distributed cigars. Everybody was writ 
ing, writing. Five men were sent out to 
hunt for Newcomb, but none could find 
him. His mother refused to state where 
he had gone; in fact, she knew nothing 
save that he had gone horseback riding. 

At nine there was a gathering at the 



club. Williard was there, and all who 
had charge of the wheels within wheels. 
They had ensconced themselves in the 
huge davenports in the bow-window fac 
ing the street, and had given orders to 
the steward to charge everything that 
night to Senator Gordon. A fabulous 
number of corks were pulled; but gentle 
men are always orderly. 

Williard, however, seemed anything 
but happy. He had dined at the senator's 
that evening, and something had taken 
place there which the general public 
would never learn. He was gloomy, and 
the wine he drank only added to his 

The younger element began to wander 
in, carrying those execrable rooster-pos 
ters. A gay time ensued. 

Newcomb had ridden twelve miles into 
the country. At eight o'clock the tem- 



perature changed and it began to snow. 
He turned and rode back toward the 
city, toward victory or 'defeat. Some 
times he went at a canter, sometimes at a 
trot. By and by he could see the aureola 
from the electric lights wavering above 
the city. Once he struck a wind-match 
and glanced at his watch. Had he lost or 
had he won? 'A whimsical inspiration 
came to him. He determined to hear vic 
tory or 'defeat from the lips of the girl he 
loved. The snow fell softly into his face 
and melted. His hair became matted over 
his eyes; his gauntlets dripped and the 
reins became slippery; a steam rose from 
the horse's body, a big-hearted hunter on 
which he had ridden many a mile. 

"Good boy I" said Newcomb; "we'll 
have it first from her lips." 

Finally he struck the asphalt of the city 
limits, and he slowed down to a walk. He 


turned into obscure streets. Whenever he 
saw a bonfire, he evaded it. 

It was ten o'clock when he drew up in 
front of the Gordon home. He tied his 
horse to the post with the hitching-chain 
and knotted the reins so that they would 
not slip over the horse's head, wiped his 
face with his handkerchief, and walked 
bravely up to the veranda. There were 
few lights. Through the library window 
he saw the girl standing at the telephone. 
He prayed that she might be wholly 
alone. After a moment's hesitation he 
pressed the button and waited. 

Betty herself came to the door. She 
peered out. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

"I did not expect that you would recog 
nize me," said Newcomb, laughing. 

"John? Where in the world did you 
come from?" taking him by the arm and 



dragging him into the hall. "Good gra 

"The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels 
at six o'clock, and have been riding 
around the country ever since." He sent 
her a penetrating glance. 

"Come in to the fire," she cried impul 
sively. "You are cold and wet and hun- 


"Only wet," he admitted as he entered 
the cheerful library. He went directly to 
the blazing grate and spread out his red, 
wet, aching hands. He could hear her 
bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. 
A chair rolled up to the fender; the rat 
tle of a tea-table followed. It was all very 
fine. "I ought to be ashamed to enter a 
house in these reeking clothes," he said; 
"but the*temptation was too great." 

"You are always welcome, John," 


His keen ear caught the melancholy 
sympathy in her tone. He shrugged. He 
had lost the fight. Had he won, she would 
already have poured forth her congratu 

"Sit down," she commanded, "while I 
get the tea. Or would you prefer 

"The tea, by all means. I do not need 
brandy to bolster up my courage." He 
sat down. 

She left the room and returned shortly 
with biscuit and tea. She filled a cup, put 
in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup 
to him. 

"You've a good memory," he said, 
smiling at her. "It's nice to have one's 
likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I 
look as if I had been to war, don't I?" 

She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not 
because he was hungry, but because her 


fingers had touched it. It was a phantom 
kiss. He put the cup down. 

"Now, which is it; have I been licked, 
or have I won?" 

"What!" she cried; "do you mean to 
tell me you do not know?" She gazed at 
him bewilderedly. 

"I have been four hours in the saddle. 
I know nothing, save that which instinct 
and the sweet melancholy of your voice 
tell me. Betty, tell me, I've been licked, 
haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done 
it, eh?" 

The girl choked for a moment; there 
was a sob in her throat. 

"Yes, John." 

Newcomb reached over and tapped 
the hearth with his riding-crop, absent- 
mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her 
eyes shining in a mist of unshed tears. 
, . . She longed to reach out her hand 

and smooth the furrows from his care 
worn brow, to brush the melting crystals 
of snow from his hair; longed to soothe 
the smart of defeat which she knew was 
burning rfis heart. She knew that only 
strong men suffer in silence. 

From a half-opened window the night 
breathed upon them, freighted with the 
far-off murmur of voices. 

"I confess to you that I built too much 
on the outcome. I am ambitious ; I want 
to be somebody, to take part in the great 
affairs of the world. I fought the very 
best I knew how. I had many dreams. 
Do you recollect the verses I used to write 
to you when we were children? There 
was always something of the poet in me, 
and it is still there, only it no longer de 
velops on paper. I had looked toward 
Washington . . . even toward you, 



Silence. The girl sat very still. Her 
face was white and her eyes large. 

"I am honest. I can see now that I have 
no business in politics. ..." He 
laughed suddenly and turned toward the 
girl. "I was on the verge of wailing. I'm 
licked, and I must begin all over again. 
Dick will make a good mayor, that is, if 
they leave him alone. . . . Whim 
sical, wasn't it, of me, coming here to 
have you tell me the news?" He looked 

The girl smiled and held out her hand 
to him, and as he did not see it, laid it 
gently on his sleeve. 

"It does not matter, John. Some day 
you will realize all your ambitions. You 
are not the kind of man who gives up. 
Defeat is a necessary step to greatness; 
and you will become great. I am glad 
that you came to me." She knew now ; all 


her doubts were gone, all the confusing 

Newcomb turned and touched her hand 
with his lips. 

"Why did you come to me?" she asked 
with fine courage. 

His eyes widened. "Why did I come to 
you? If I had won I should have told 
you. But I haven't won ; I have lost." 

"Does that make the difference so 

"It makes the difficulty greater." 

"Tell me!" with a voice of command. 

They both rose suddenly, rather uncon 
sciously, too. Their glances held, magnet 
and needle-wise. Across the street a bon 
fire blazed, and the ruddy light threw a 
mellow rose over their strained faces. 

"I love you," he said simply. "That is 
what drew me here, that is what has al 
ways drawn me here. But say nothing to 



me, Betty. Go'd knows I am not strong 
enough to suffer two defeats in one night. 
God bless you and make you happy!" 

He turned and took a few steps toward 
the door. 

"If it were not 'defeat . . . if it 
were victory?" she said, in a kind of whis 
per, her hands on the back of the chair. 

The senator came in about midnight. 
He found his daughter asleep in a chair 
before a half-dead fire. There was a ten 
der smile on her lips. He touched her 

"It is you, daddy?" Her glance trav 
eled from his florid countenance to the 
clock. "Mercy! I have been dreaming 
these two hours." 

"What do you suppose Newcomb" did 
to-night?" lighting a cigar. 

"What 'did he do?" 


"Came into the club and congratulated 
Williard publicly." 

"He did that?" cried the girl, her 
cheeks dyeing exquisitely. 

"Did it like a man, too." The senator 
dropped into a chair. "It was a great vic 
tory, my girl." 

Betty smiled. "Yes, it was." 


tcYT is positively dreadful!" 

Even with the puckered brow 

-* and drooping lips, Mrs. Cathewe 
was a most charming young person. 

Absently she breathed upon the chilled 
window-pane, and with the pink horn of 
her tapering forefinger drew letters and 
grotesque noses and millions on millions 
of money. 

Who has not, at one time or another, 
pursued art and riches in this harmless 

The outlook from the window, not 
the millions was not one to promote any 


degree of cheerfulness, being of darkness, 
glistening pavements and a steady, blurr 
ing rain; and at this particular moment 
Mrs. Cathewe was quite in sympathy with 
the outlook; that is to say, dismal. 

"Only last week," she went on, "it was 
an actor out of employ, a man with re 
versible cuffs and a celluloid collar; but 
even he knew the difference between 
bouillon and tea. And now, Heaven have 
mercy, it is a prize-fighter!' 7 

Mrs. Cathewe reopened the note which 
in her wrath she had crushed in her left 
hand, and again read it aloud: 

"DEAR NANCY Am bringing home Sullivan, 
the boxer, to dinner. Now, ducky, don't get mad. 
I want to study him at close range. You know 
that I am to have a great boxing scene in my new 
book, and this study is absolutely necessary. In 
haste. JACK." 

Mrs. Cathewe turned pathetically to 
her companion. 



"Isn't it awful? A prize-fighter, in 
spite of all this reform movement! A 

"A pug, as my brother would tersely 
but inelegantly express it," and Caroline 
Boderick lifted an exquisitely molded 
chin and laughed; a rollicking laugh 
which, in spite of her endeavor to remain 
unmoved, twisted up the corners of Mrs. 
Cathewe's rebel mouth. 

"Forgive me, Nan, if I laugh ; but who 
in the world could help it? It is so droll. 
This is the greatest house! Imagine, I 
had the blues the worst kind of way to 
day; and now I shall be laughing for a 
whole week. You dear girl, what do you 
care? You'll be laughing, too, presently. 
When a woman marries a successful 
painter or a popular novelist, she will 
find that she has wedded also a life full 
of surprises, full of amusing scenes ; ennui 


is a word cast forth to wander among 
commonplace folk. Your husband must 
have his model, just the same as if he were 
an artist, which he undeniably is." 

"Models!" scornfully. "I wish he were 
a romanticist. I declare, if this realism 
keeps on, I shall go and live in the coun 

"And have your husband's curios re 
main all night instead of simply dining." 
And Caroline pressed her hands against 
her sides. 

"That is it; laugh, laugh! Carol, you 
have no more sympathy than a turtle." 

"You are laughing yourself," said Car 

"It is because I'm looking at you. Why, 
I am positively raging!" She tore her 
husband's letter into shreds and cast them 
at her feet. "Jack is always upsetting my 
choicest plans." 



"And my sobriety. If I had a husband 
like yours I should always be the happiest 
and merriest woman in the world. What 
a happy woman you must and ought to 

"I am, Carol, I am; but there are times 
when Jack is as terrible and uncertain as 
Mark Twain's New England weather. 
Supposing I had been giving a big dinner 
to-night? It would have been just the 

"Only more amusing. Fancy Mrs. Not 
tingham-Stuart taking inventory of this 
Mr. Sullivan through that pince-nez of 

A thought suddenly sobered Mrs. 

"But whatever shall I do, Carol? I 
have invited the rector to dine with us." 

Mirth spread its sunny wings and flew 
away, leaving Caroline's beautiful eyes 


thoughtful and contemplative. "I under 
stood that it was to be a very little dinner 
for the family." 

"Carol, why don't you like the rector? 
He is almost handsome." 

"I do like him, Nan." 

"Oh, I don't mean in that way," im 

"In what way?" asked Caroline, her 
voice losing some of its warmth. 


The faint, perpendicular line above 
Caroline's nose was the only sign of her 

"Has he proposed to you?" 

"Gracious sakes! one would think that 
the rector was in love with me. Nan, you 
are very embarrassing when you look like 
that. Match-making isn't your forte. Be 
sides, the rector and I do not get on very 
well. Bifurcated riding skirts are not to 


his fancy; and I would net give up my 
morning ride for the best man living. Oh, 
Nan, you ought to ride a horse; there's 
nothing like it in the world." 

"The rector has called upon you more 
than any other girl in town." When Mrs. 
Cathewe had an idea, she was very per 
sistent about it. "I have even seen him 
watching you when delivering a sermon." 

Caroline laughed. 

"Calling doesn't signify. And you must 
remember, daddy is the banker of St. 
Paul's. No, Nan; I don't mean that; I 
am sure that the rector's calls have noth 
ing to do with the finances of the church. 
But, to tell the truth, daddy calls him a 
mollycoddle ; says he hasn't enough gump 
tion whatever that may be to stand up 
for himself at the trustees' meetings. All 
the trustees are opposed to him because he 
is not over thirty." 



"And the best-looking rector the 
church ever had," supplemented Mrs. 

"But a mollycoddle, Nan! You 
wouldn't have me marry a mollycoddle, 
would you?" There was a covert plea in 
her tones which urged Mrs. Cathewe em 
phatically to deny that the Reverend 
Richard Allen was a mollycoddle. 

Mrs. Cathewe did deny it. "He is not 
a mollycoddle, and you very well know it. 
Jack says that his meekness and humility 
is all a sham." 

"A hypocrite 1" sitting up very straight. 

"Mercy, no! His meekness is merely a 
sign of splendid self-control. No man 
could be a mollycoddle and have eyes like 
his. True, they are mild, but of the mild 
ness of the sea on a calm day. 'Ware of 
the hurricane!" 

"Has Mr. Cathewe found out yet to 



what college he belonged before he be 
came a divinity student?" 

"No; and even I have never had the 
courage to ask him. But Jack thinks it 
is Harvard, because the rector let slip one 
day something about Cambridge. Why 
don't you write to ask your brother about 

For reasons best known to herself, 
Caroline did not answer. 

"Are you ever going to get married? 
You are twenty-four." 

Caroline was laughing again; but it 
was not the same spirit of mirth that had 
been called into life by the possible and 
probable advent of Mr. "Shifty" Sulli 

"You ought to get married," declared 
Mrs. Cathewe. "Think of the dinners 
and teas I should give, following the an 




"It is almost worth the risk," mock 
ingly. Caroline arose and walked over to 
the grate and sat down in the Morris 
chair. She took up the tongs and stirred 
the maple log. The spurt of flame dis 
covered a face almost as beautiful as it 
was interesting and amiable. Her princi 
pal claim to beauty, however, lay in her 
eyes, which were large and brown, with 
a glister of gold in the rim of that part of 
the iris which immediately surrounded 
the pupil. With these eyes she was fasci 
nating; even her dearest friends admitted 
this; and she was without caprices, which 
is a rare trait in a beautiful woman. She 
was also as independent as the Declara 
tion which her mother's grandfather 
signed a hundred and some odd years be 
fore. She came naturally into the spirit, 
her father being a retired army officer, 
now the financial mainstay of St. Paul's, 



of which the Reverend Richard Allen 
had recently been duly appointed rector. 

It is propitious to observe at once that 
the general possessed an unreliable liver 
and a battered shin which always ached 
with rheumatism during rainy weather. 
Only two persons dared to cross him on 
stormy days his daughter and his son. 
The son was completing his final year at 
Harvard in the double capacity of so-and- 
so on the Varsity crew and some-place-or- 
other on the eleven, and felt the impor 
tance of the luster which he was adding to 
the historic family name. But this story 
in nowise concerns him; rather the ad 
ventures of Mr. Sullivan, the pugilist, 
and the rector of St. Paul. 

"Mollycoddle," mused Caroline, re 
placing the tongs. 

"Oh, your father's judgment is not in 



"It is where courage is concerned," re 
torted Caroline. 

"Well, what's a mollycoddle, anyway?" 
demanded Mrs. Cathewe, forgetting for 
the time being her own imminent troubles. 

"Does Webster define it? I do not re 
call. But at any rate the accepted mean 
ing of the word is a person without a 
backbone, a human being with rubber 
vertebrae, as daddy expresses it." 

"Oh, fudge! your father likes men who 
slam doors, talk loudly, and bang their 
fists in their palms." 

"Not always," smiling; "at least on 
days like this." 

"Yes, I understand," replied Mrs. 
Cathewe, laughing. "B-r-r-r! I can see 
him. Jack says he eats them alive, what 
ever he means by that." 

"Poor daddy!" 

"I remember the late rector. When- 



ever he made a begging call he first asked 
the servant at the door, 'How's the gen 
eral's liver to-day?' 'Bad, bad, your wor 
ship.' I overheard this dialogue one day 
while waiting for you. I had to bury my 
head in the sofa pillows." 

"You are going to have Brussels 
sprouts for salad?" 

"Yes. Why?" amused at this queer 
turn in the conversation. 

"I was wondering if your Mr. Sullivan 
will call them amateur cabbages?" 

"Why did you remind me of him? I 
had almost forgotten him." 

"If only I can keep a sober face!" said 
Caroline, clasping her hands. "If he 
wears a dress suit, it is sure to pucker 
across the shoulders, be short in the 
sleeves, and generally wrinkled. He will 
wear a huge yellow stone, and his hair 
will be clipped close to the skull. It will 


be covered with as many white scars as a 
map with railroad tracks. 'Mr. Sullivan, 
permit me to introduce the Reverend 
Richard Allen.' 'Sure.' Oh, it is rich!" 
And the laughter which followed smoth 
ered the sound of closing doors. "Nan, it 
is a tonic. I wish I were a novelist's wife. 
'Mr. Sullivan, I am charmed to meet 
you.' I can imagine the rector's horror." 

"And what is going to horrify the rec 
tor?" asked a manly voice from the door 

Both women turned guiltily, each ut 
tering a little cry of surprise and dismay. 
They beheld a young man' of thirty, of 
medium height, who looked shorter than 
he really was because of the breadth of 
his shoulders. His face was clean-shaven 
and manly; the head was well developed, 
the chin decided, the blue-gray eyes 
alight with animation and expectancy. 



The clerical frock was buttoned closely 
to the throat, giving emphasis to the 
splendid breathing powers concealed be 
neath. The Reverend Richard Allen 
looked all things save the mollycoddle, as 
the flush on Caroline's cheeks conceded. 
And as she arose, she vaguely wondered 
how much he had heard. 

The rector, being above all things a 
gentleman, did not press his question. He 
came forward and shook hands, and then 
spread his fingers over the crackling log. 

"What do you suppose has happened 
to me this day?" he began, turning his 
back to the blaze and looking first at Mrs. 
Cathewe because she was his hostess, and 
then at Caroline because she was the 
woman who lived first in his thoughts. 

"You have found a worthy mendi 
cant?" suggested Caroline, taking up the 
hand-screen and shading her eyes. 
1 60 


"Cold, cold." 

"You have been asked to make an ad 
dress before some woman's club," Mrs. 
Cathewe offered. 

"Still cold. No. The Morning Post 
has asked me, in the interests of reform, to 
write up the prize-fight to-morrow night 
between Sullivan and McManus, setting 
forth the contest in all its brutality." 

The two women looked at each 
other and laughed nervously. The same 
thought had occurred to each. 

"Mr. Allen," said Mrs. Cathewe, de 
ciding immediately to explain the cause 
of her merriment, "as you entered you 
must have overheard us speak of a Mr. 
Sullivan. You know how eccentric Mr. 
Cathewe is. Well, when I invited you to 
dine this evening I had no idea that this 
husband of mine was going to bring home 
Mr. Sullivan in order to study him at 


close range, as a possible character in a 
new book he is writing." 

The rector stroked his chin. Caroline, 
observing him shyly, was positive that the 
luster in his eyes was due to suppressed 

"That will be quite a diversion," he 
said, seating himself. What a charming 
profile this girl possessed! Heigh-ho! be 
tween riches and poverty the chasm grew 

"And we have been amusing ourselves 
by dissecting Mr. Sullivan," added the 
woman with the charming profile. "I 
suggested that if he wore a dress suit it 
would be either too large or too small." 

"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Cathewe, 
rising suddenly as the hall door slammed, 
"I believe he has come already. What 
ever shall I do, Carol, whatever shall I 
do?" in a loud whisper. 


The rector got up and smiled at Caro 
line, who returned the smile. In the mat 
ter of appreciating humor, she and the 
rector stood upon common ground. 

Presently the novelist and his guest en 
tered. Both he and Mr. Sullivan ap 
peared to be in the best of spirits, for their 
mouths were twisted in grins. 

"My dear," began Cathewe, "this is 
Mr. Sullivan; Mr. Sullivan, Miss Bod- 
erick and the Reverend Richard Allen, of 
St. Paul's." 

"I am delighted," said Mr. Sullivan, 

There was not a wrinkle in Mr. Sulli 
van's dress suit; there were no diamond 
studs in his shirt bosom, no watch-chain; 
just the rims of his cuffs appeared, and 
these were of immaculate linen. His hair 
was black and thick and soft as hair al 
ways is that is frequently subjected to 


soap and water. In fact, there was only 
one sign which betrayed Mr. Sullivan's 
profitable but equivocal business in life, 
and this was an ear which somewhat re 
sembled a withered mushroom. 

Caroline was disconcerted; she was 
even embarrassed. This pleasant-faced 
gentleman bowing to her was as far re 
moved from her preconceived idea of a 
pugilist as the earth is removed from the 
sun. She did not know as the wise 
writer knows that it is only pugilists 
who can not fight who are all scarred and 
battered. She saw the rector shake Mr. 
Sullivan's hand. From him her gaze 
roved to Mrs. Cathewe, and the look of 
perplexity on that young matron's face 
caused her to smother the sudden wild de 
sire to laugh. 

"My dear, I shall leave you to enter 
tain Mr. Sullivan while I change my 


clothes;" and Cathewe rushed from the 
room. He was a man who could not hold 
in laughter very successfully. 

"Come over to the fire and warm your 
self," said the rector pleasantly. The look 
of entreaty in Mrs. Cathewe's eyes could 
not possibly be ignored. 

Mr. Sullivan crossed the room, gazing 
about curiously. 

"I haven't th' slightest idea, ma'am," 
said the famed pugilist, addressing his 
hostess, "what your husband's graft is; 
but I understand he's a literary fellow 
that writes books, an' I suppose he knows 
why he ast me here t' eat." 

Caroline sighed with relief; his voice 
was very nearly what she expected it 
would be. 

"An' besides," continued Mr. Sullivan, 
"I'm kind o' curious myself t' see you 
swells get outside your feed. I ain't stuck 


on these togs, generally; a man's afraid 
t' breathe hearty." 

Mrs. Cathewe shuddered slightly; Mr. 
Sullivan was rubbing the cold from his 
fungus-like ear. What should she do to 
entertain this man? she wondered. She 
glanced despairingly at Caroline; but 
Caroline was looking at the rector, who 
in turn seemed absorbed in Mr. Sullivan. 
She was without help; telegraphic com 
munication was cut off, as it were. 

"Do you think it will snow to-night?" 
she asked. 

"It looks like it would," answered Mr. 
Sullivan, with a polite but furtive glance 
at the window. "Though there'll be a 
bigger push out to-morrer if it's clear. 
It's goin' t' be a good fight. D' you ever 
see a scrap, sir?" he asked, turning to the 

Caroline wondered if it was the fire or 
1 66 


the rector's own blood which darkened 
his cheek. 

"I belong to the clergy," said the rector 
softly; "it is our duty not to witness rights, 
but to prevent them." 

"Now, I say!" remonstrated Mr. Sul 
livan, "you folks run around in your 
autos, knock down people an' frighten 
horses, so's they run away; you go out an' 
kill thousands of birds an' deer an' fish, 
an' all that; an' yet you're th' first t' holler 
when two healthy men pummel each 
other for a livin'. You ain't consistent. 
Why, th' hardest punch I ever got never 
pained me more'n an hour, an' I took th' 
fat end of th' purse at that. When you're 
a kid, ain't you always quarrelin' an' 
scrappin'? Sure. Sometimes it was with 
reason an' cause, an' again jus' plain love 
of fightin'. Well, that's me. I fight be 
cause I like it, an' because it pays. Sure. 


It's on'y natural for some of us t' fight all 
th' time; an' honest, I'm dead weary of th' 
way th' papers yell about th' brutal prize 
fight. If I want t' get my block punched 
off, that's my affair; an' I don't see what 
business some old fussies have in inter- 

"It isn't really the fighting, Mr. Sul 
livan," replied the rector, who felt com 
pelled to defend his point of view; "it's 
the rough element which is always 
brought to the surface during these en 
gagements. Men drink and use profane 
language and wager money." 

"As t' that, I don't say;" and Mr. Sul 
livan moved his hands in a manner which 
explained his inability to account for the 
transgressions of the common race. 

"What's a block?" whispered Mrs. 
Cathewe into Caroline's ear. 

Caroline raised her eyebrows; she had 


almost surrendered to the first natural im 
pulse, that of raising her hands above her 
head, as she had often seen her brother do 
when faced by an unanswerable question. 

The trend of conversation veered. Mr. 
Sullivan declared that he would never go 
upon the stage, and all laughed. Occa 
sionally the women ventured timidly to 
offer an observation which invariably 
caused Mr. Sullivan to loose an expansive 
grin. And when he learned that the rec 
tor was to witness the fight in the capacity 
of a reporter, he enjoyed the knowledge 

Presently Cathewe appeared, and din 
ner was announced. Mr. Sullivan sat be 
tween his host and hostess. No, he would 
not have a cocktail nor a highball; he 
never drank. Mrs. Cathewe straightway 
marked him down as a rank impostor. 
Didn't prize-fighters always drink and 

carouse and get locked up by the police 

"Well, this is a new one on me," Mr. 
Sullivan admitted, as he tasted of his 
caviar and quietly dropped his fork. 
"May I ask what it is?" 

"It's Russian caviar. It is like Russian 
literature ; one has to cultivate a taste for 
it." The novelist glanced amusedly at the 

"It reminds me of what happened t' 
me at White Plains a couple of years ago. 
I was in trainin' that fall at Mulligan's. 
You've heard of Mulligan; greatest man 
on th' mat in his time. Well, I bucked up 
against French spinach. Says he: 'Eat 
it.' Says I, 'I don't like it.' Says he, 'I 
don't care whether you like it or not. I 
don't like your mug, but I have t' put up 
with it. Eat that spinach.' Says I, 'I don't 
see how I can eat it if I don't like it.' 


An' an hour after he gives me th' bill, an' 
I'd have had on'y thirty minutes t' get 
out but for th' housekeeper, who patched 
it up. Those were great times. Sure. 
Well, no spinach or caviar in mine. Now 
say, what's th' game? Do you want my 
history, or jus' a scrap or two?" 

"Describe how you won the champion 
ship from McGonegal," said Cathewe 
eagerly, nodding to the butler to serve the 

Mr. Sullivan toyed with the filigree 
butter-knife, mentally deciding that its 
use was for cutting pie. He cast an 
oblique glance at the immobile coun 
tenance of the English butler, and 

"Well," he began, "it was like 
this. ..." 

As Mr. Sullivan went on, a series of 
whispered questions and answers was 


started between Caroline and the rector. 

Caroline: What does he mean by 

The Rector: His head, I believe. 

Caroline: Oh! 

Mr. Sullivan: There wasn't much 
doin' in th' third round. We fiddled a 
while. On'y once did either of us get t' 
th' ropes ... an' th' bell rang. Th' 
fourth was a hot one; hammer an' tongs 
from th' start off. He hooked me twice 
on th' wind, and I handed him out a jolt 
on th' jaw that put him t' th' mat. . . . 
I had th' best of th' round. 

Caroline: In mercy's sake, what does 
he mean by "slats"? 

The Rector (seized with a slight 
coughing) : Possibly his ribs. 

Caroline: Good gracious! (Whether 
this ejaculation was caused by surprise or 
by the oyster on which she had put more 


horse-radish than was suited to her palate, 
will always remain a mystery.) 

Mr. Sullivan: We were out for gore 
th' fift' round. He was gettin' strong on 
his hooks. 

Mrs. Cathewe (interrupting him with 
great timidity) : What do you mean by 

Mr. Sullivan: It's a blow like this. 
(Illustrates and knocks over the center 
piece. Water and flowers spread over the 
table.) I say, now, look at that. Ain't I 
a Mike now, t' knock over th' flower-pot 
like that? 

Catheive: Never mind that, Mr. Sulli 
van. Go on with the fight. 

Mr. Sullivan: Where was I? Oh, yes; 
he put it all over me that round. . . . 
They had counted eight when th' bell 
rang an' saved me. 

Caroline: Hit him on the phonograph/ 



The Rector (reddening) : It is possible 
that he refers to Mr. McGonegal's mouth. 

Caroline: Well, I never! And I've got 
a slangy brother, too, at Harvard. 

(The rector looks gravely at his empty 

Mr. Sullivan: Things went along 
about even till th' tenth, when I blacked 
his lamps. 

Caroline: Lamps? 

The Rector: Eyes, doubtless. 

Caroline: It's getting too deep for me. 

Mr. Sullivan: The last round I saw 
that I had him goin' all right. In two 
seconds I had burgundy flowin' from his 

(Cathewe leans back in his chair and 

Mrs. Cathewe (bewilderingly) : Bur 

Mr. Sullivan (rather impatiently) : A 



jolt on th' nose. Well, there was some 
more waltzin', and then a hook an' a 
swing, an' him on th' mat, down an' out. 
I made six thousand, an' on'y got this tin 
ear t' show for my trouble. 

It was fully ten o'clock when the coffee 
was served. Mr. Sullivan may have lost 
not a few "e's" and "g's" in the passing, 
but for all that he proved no small enter 
tainment; and when he arose with the re 
mark that he was "for th' tall pines," both 
ladies experienced an amused regret. 

"Which way do you go?" asked Mr. 
Sullivan, laying his hand on the rector's 

"I pass your hotel. I shall be pleased 
to walk with you." 

"I say," suddenly exclaimed Mr. Sulli 
van, pressing his pudgy fingers into the 
rector's arm, "where did you get this 



arm? Why, it is as tough as a railroad 


"A course of physical culture," said 
the rector, visibly embarrassed. 

"Physical culture? All right. But 
don't ever get mad at me," laughed Mr. 
Sullivan. "It's as big as a pile-driver." 

The novelist told Mr. Sullivan that he 
was very much obliged for his company. 

"Don't mention it. Drop int' th' fight 
to-morrer night. You'll get more ideas 
there'n you will hearin' me shoot hot air." 

Cathewe looked slyly at his wife. He 
was a man, and more than once he had 
slipped away from the club and taken in 
the last few rounds, and then had re 
turned home to say what a dull night he 
had had at the club. 

Mrs. Cathewe had her arm lovingly 
around Caroline's waist. All at once she 
felt Caroline start. 



"What is it?" she whispered. 

"Nothing, nothing!" Caroline declared 

But on the way home in her carriage 
Caroline wondered where the Reverend 
Richard Allen, rector of St. Paul's, had 
acquired his tin ear. 



4 ( "^ EAR Sis Yours received. Have 
jR hunted up the name, and have found 
^J that your Reverend Richard Allen 
is an '89 man, one of the best all- 
round men we ever had on the track. He was 
a terror, too, so an old grad tells me. Got kicked 
out in his senior year. It seems that his chum 
and roommate was very deeply in the hole, not 
extravagantly, like yours truly, but by a series of 
hard knocks. Allen had no cash himself. And 
you know when you haven't any money in sight, 
you can't borrow any. One night at the Museum 
(there was a cheap show on) a prize-fighter of 
fered $300 to any one who would stand up before 
him for five rounds. Allen jumped up on the 
stage and licked the pug to a standstill. He got 
a bad swipe on the ear, however; and if your 
Allen has what they call a tin ear, an ear that 
looks as if my best bullpup had tried to make his 
dinner off it, ecce homo! He paid his mate's 
debts, and then was requested to call on the fac. 
The old ladies told him to pack up. He did. He 
has never returned to college since. But why do 



you want to know all about him? They say he 
was a handsome duffer. You know I haven't 
seen him yet, not having been home since last 
Easter time. Now, for Heaven's sake, Sis, don't 
go and get daffy on his Riverince. I've got a 
man in tow for you, the best fellow that ever 
lived. Affectionately, JACK." 

"P. S. Can't you shove a couple of 5o's in your 
next letter to me? The governor's liver wasn't 
in good shape the first of the month." 

Caroline dropped the letter into her 
lap and stared out of the window. It 
was snowing great, soft, melting flakes. 
She did not know whether to laugh or to 
cry, nor what occasioned this impulse to 
do either. So he was a Cambridge man, 
and had been expelled for prize-fighting; 
for certainly it had been prize-fighting, 
even though the motive had been a good 
and manly one. 

"A milksop !" There was no doubt, no 
hesitancy; her laughter rang out fresh 


and clear. What would her father say 
when he learned the truth? Her next 
thought was, why should the rector pose 
as a lamb, patient and unspeaking, when 
all the time he was a lion? She alone had 
solved the mystery. It was self-control, it 
was power. This discovery filled her 
with a quiet exultation. She was a 
woman, and to unravel a secret was as joy 
ful a task for her as to invent a fashionable 

The bygone rectors had interested her 
little; they had been either pedants, fanat 
ics, or social drones; while this man had 
gone about his work quietly and modestly. 
He never said: "I visited the poor to 
day." It was the poor who said: "The 
rector was here to-day with money and 
clothes." But his past he let remain nebu 
lous; not even the trustees themselves had 
peered far into it, at least not as far back 
1 80 


as the Cambridge days. Thus, the ele 
ment of mystery surrounding him first at 
tracted her; the man's personality added 
to this. The knowledge that he was a col 
lege man seemed to place him nearer her 
social level, though she was not a person 
to particularize so long as a man proved 
himself; and the rector had, beyond a 
doubt, proved himself. 

There were dozens of brilliant young 
men following eagerly in her train. They 
rode with her, drove with her, and fought 
for the privilege of playing caddy to her 
game. Yet, while she liked them all, she 
cared particularly for none. The rector, 
being a new species of man, became a 
study. Time and time again she had in 
vited him to the Country Club; he al 
ways excused himself on the ground that 
he was taking a course of reading such as 
to demand all his spare time in the day. 


One morning she had been riding alone, 
and had seen him tramping across coun 
try. In the spirit of fun she took a couple 
of fences and caught up with him. He 
had appeared greatly surprised, even em 
barrassed, for her woman's eye had been 
quick to read. She had rallied him upon 
his stride. He had become silent. And 
this man had "jumped upon the stage and 
licked the pug to a standstill!" 

"Carol, are you there?" 

Caroline started and hid the letter. 
She arose and admitted her father. 

"James says that you received a letter 
this afternoon. Was it from the boy? 
Begging for money? Well, Hon't you 
dare to send it to him. The ragamuffin 
has overdrawn seven hundred dollars 
this month. What's he think I am, a 
United States Steel Corporation?" 

"He has asked me for one hundred 


dollars, and I am going to send it to the 
poor boy to-night." 

"Oh, you are, are you? Who's bringing 
up the scalawag, you or I?" 

"You are trying to, daddy, but I believe 
he's bent on bringing himself up." She 
ran her fingers through his hair. "I know 
the weather's bad, daddy, but don't be 
cross. Come over to the piano and I'll 
play for you." 

"I don't want any music," gruffly. 

"Come," dragging him. 

"That's the way; I have no authority 
in this house. But, seriously, Carol, the 
boy's spending it pretty fast, and it will 
not do him a bit of good. I want to make 
a man out of him, not a spendthrift. Play 
that what-d'you-call-it from Chopin." 

"The Berceuse?' 1 '' seating herself at the 

The twilight of winter was fast settling 



down. The house across the way began 
to glow at various windows. Still sh'e 
played. From Chopin she turned to 
Schumann, from Schumann to Rubin 
stein, back to Chopin's polonaise and the 
nocturne in E flat major. 

"You play those with a livelier spirit 
than usual," was the general's only com 
ment. How these haunting melodies took 
him back to the past, when the girl's 
mother played them in the golden court 
ing days! He could not see the blush his 
comment. had brought to his daughter's 
cheek. "My dear, my dear!" he said, with 
great tenderness, sliding his arm around 
her waist, "I know that I'm cross at times, 
but I'm only an old barking dog; don't do 
any harm. I'll tell you what, if my leg's 
all right next Saturday I'll ride out to the 
Country Club with you, and we'll have 
tea together." 



She leaned toward him and kissed him. 
"Daddy, what makes you think so meanly 
of the rector? I was thinking of him 
when you came in." 

"I don't think meanly of him; but, 
hang it, Carol, he always says 'Yes' when 
I want him to say 'No,' and vise versa. 
He's too complacent. I like a man who's 
a human being to kick once in a while, a 
man who's got some fight in him. . . . 
What are you laughing at, you torment?" 

"At something which just occurred to 
me. There goes the gong for dinner. I 

am ravenous." 

"By the way, I forgot to tell you what 
I saw in the evening edition of the Post. 
Your parson is going to report the prize 
fight to-night. He'll be frightened out of 
his shoes. I'm going up to the club; go 
ing to play a few rubbers. It'll make me 
forget my grumbling leg. You run over 


to Cathewc's or telephone Mrs. Cathewe 
to run over here." 

"Can't you stay in to-night? I don't 
want anybody but you." 

"But I've half promised; besides, I'm 
sort of blue. I need the excitement." 

"Very well; I'll telephone Nan. Mr. 
Cathewe will probably go to that awful 
fight in the interests of his new book. 
She'll come." 

"Cathewe's going to the fight, you say? 
Humph!" The general scratched his ear 

1 86 


^ j ; "^HE auditorium was a great barn- 
like building which had been 

*" erected originally for the purpose 
of a roller-skating rink. Nowadays the 
charity bazaars were held there, the balls, 
political mass-meetings, amateur dramat 
ics, and prize-fights. 

Cathewe, as he gazed curiously around, 
pictured to himself the contrast between 
.the Thanksgiving ball of the past week 
and the present scene, and fell into his 
usual habit of philosophizing. His seat 
was high up in the gallery. What faces 
he saw through the blue and choking haze 
of smoke! Saloon keepers, idlers, stunted 
youth, blase men about town, with a 
sprinkling of respectable business men, 

who ever and anon cast hasty and guilty 
glances over their shoulders, and when 
caught would raise a finger as if to say: 
"You rogue, what are you doing here?" 
these and other sights met his interested 
eye. Even he confessed to himself that 
his presence here was not all due to the 
gathering of color for his new book. Self- 
analysis discovered to him that the animal 
in him was eagerly awaiting the arrival 
of the fighters. Such is human nature. 

Down below he saw the raised plat 
form, strongly protected by ropes. 
Around this were the reporters' tables, the 
telegraph operators' desks, a few chairs 
for the privileged friends of the press, and 
pails, towels and sponges. Yes, there was 
the rector, sitting at one of the reporters' 
tables, erect in his chair, his gaze bent 
upon his paper pad, apparently oblivious 
to his strange surroundings. Cathewe 

i i 


wondered what was going on in that some 
what mystifying mind. He certainly 
would have been surprised could he have 

In fact, the rector was going over again 
his own memorable battle in Boston some 
ten years ago. He was thinking how it 
had changed his whole career, how it had 
swerved him from the bar to the pulpit. 

Ah, to be within the magic circle of 
her presence, to be within sight and touch 
all his life, sometimes to hear her voice 
lifted in song, the smooth, white fingers 
bringing to life the poetry of sound! He 
had ceased to lie to himself. He loved, 
with all his heart, with all his soul. He 
had given up; he had surrendered com 
pletely; but she was never to know. Even 
at this moment poverty took him to the 
mount and showed him the abyss between 
him and his heart's desire. He was 
1 80 


aroused from his dreams by a sudden 
commotion, a subdued murmur. Mr. 
Sullivan's antagonist, dressed in a gaudy 
sky-blue bath-robe, was crawling under 
the ropes, followed by his seconds. The 
murmur grew into a prolonged cheer 
when Mr. Sullivan shortly followed in a 
bath-robe, even richer in hues. 

The reporters shifted their writing- 
pads, lighted fresh cigars, and drew their 
legs under the tables. The sporting editor 
of the Post turned to the rector. 

"I'll tip you off on the technicalities of 
the scrap," he said. "All you need to do 
is to watch the men and describe what 
they do in your own way." 

"Thank you," replied the rector. He 
was calm. When Mr. Sullivan nodded 
pleasantly, he smiled. 

The men in the ring threw aside their 
bath-robes, and stood forth in all the 


splendor of their robust physiques. A 
short, pompous man, wearing a watch- 
chain which threatened to disconcert his 
physical balance, stepped to the ropes and 
held up his hand. Silence suddenly fell 
upon two thousand men. 

"Th' preliminary is off; th' 'Kid' re 
fuses to go on because th' 'Dago' didn't 
weigh in as agreed. Th' main bout will 
now take place. Mr. Sullivan t' th' right, 
an' Mr. McManus t' th' left." The pomp 
ous man took out a greasy telegram from 
his pocket, and said: "Lanky Williams 
challenges th' winner fer a purse an' a side 
bet of fi' thousan'." 

He was cheered heartily. Nobody 
cared about the preliminary "go"; it was 
Sullivan and McManus the spectators 
had paid their money to see. 

The rector recalled the scenes in Quo 
V&dis, and shrugged his shoulders. Hu- 


man nature never changes; only politics 
and fashions. He himself was vaguely 
conscious of a guilty thrill as he saw the 
two men step from their corners and 
shake hands. 

As this is a story not of how Mr. 
"Shifty" Sullivan won his battle from 
Mr. McManus, but of how the rector of 
St. Paul's nearly lost his, I shall not dwell 
upon the battle as it was fought by rounds. 
Let it suffice that the crisis came during 
the twelfth round. Sullivan was having 
the best of this round, though in the four 
previous he had been worsted. The men 
came together suddenly, and there was 
some rough in-fighting. The pompous 
man, who was the referee, was kept on the 
jump. One could hear the pad-pad of 
blows and the scrape-scrape of shoes on 
the resined mat, so breathless were the 
spectators. The boxers became tangled. 


"Foul, foul!" 

The voice rang out strong and distinct. 
It was not the referee's voice, for the 
referee himself looked angrily down 
whence the voice came. Sullivan, his face 
writhed in agony, was clinging desperate 
ly to his opponent. 

"A foul blow!" 

Pandemonium. Everybody was yell 
ing, half not knowing why. 

The seconds and trainers were clamber 
ing into the ring. The referee separated 
the boxers. They rushed at each other 
furiously. The seconds stepped in be 
tween. A general mix-up followed, dur 
ing which the pompous man lost his silk 

The reporter for the Post pulled the 
rector's coat tails, and the rector sank into 
his chair, pale and terrified. He had for 
gotten! Carried away by his old love of 



clean fighting, by his love of physical con 
tests, he had forgotten, forgotten! 

"Foul! It was a foul!" 

"Ye-a! Ye-a! Foul blow!" 

"Bully ferth' parson!" 

"Sullivan, Sullivan!" 


"Foul, foul! Trow out th' referee!" 

"Give th' deacon a show fer his 

These and a thousand other cries rose 
in the vicinity of the rector. Those re 
porters whose city editors had not thought 
of the stroke of sending a minister of the 
gospel to report the fight were delighted. 
Here was a story worth forty fights, a 
story to delight thousands and thousands 
who looked upon St. Paul's as a place 
where only the rich might worship. 

"I declare the fight a draw, an' all 
bets off!" howled the referee, wiping the 

* * O TT T T* ^T* *\7 ' ' 


dust from his damaged hat, which he had 
at length recovered. 

The rector rose to move down the aisle 
to the entrance. He felt morally and 
physically crushed. All this would be in 
the newspapers the next morning. He 
was disgraced ; for everybody would ask, 
"How should he know what a foul blow 
was?' 7 It was terribly bitter, after having 
struggled so long. Presently he became 
aware that men, reeking with cigar smoke 
and liquors, were talking loudly to him, 
even cursing him. He caught some words 
about "makin' us lose our bets, when we 
come all th' way from N'York." 

A hand came into contact with his 
cheek, and the sting of it ran like fire 
through his veins. The wrath at his moral 
defeat broke down the dikes of his self- 
control; the fury which is always quickly 
provoked by physical pain in the animal- 



ity of man, swept aside his prudence. The 
man who struck him was seen to rise 
bodily and fall crumpled among the seats. 
The man's friends there were four in 
number recovering from their momen 
tary surprise, attacked the rector swiftly, 
and not without a certain conformity. 

What followed has become history. 
Even Sullivan and his opponent forgot 
their animosity for the time being, and 
leaned eagerly over the ropes. Far back 
in the surging crowd several police 
helmets could be discerned, but they made 
little progress. The rector in his tightly 
fitting frock was at a disadvantage, but 
his wonderful vigor and activity stood 
him in good stead. Quick as a cat he 
leaped from this side to that, dealing his 
blows with the rapidity of a piston-rod 
and almost as terrible in effect. Once he 
went down; but, like Antaeus, the touch 


of earth revived him and doubled his 

Men, in the mad effort to witness this 
battle, trod on one another's toes, hats 
were crushed, coats were torn, even blows 
were struck. They stood on chairs, on 
tables, yelling and cheering. This was a 
fight that was a fight. Faking had no part 
in it; there was no partiality of ref 
erees. When the police finally arrived it 
was all over. The rector was brushing his 
hat, while Cathewe, who had dashed 
down-stairs at the first sound of the rec 
tor's voice, was busy with the rector's coat. 

"Want t' appear against 'em?" asked 
one of the officers. 

"No, no ! Let them go, 1 ' cried the rec 
tor. "Cathewe, take me out, please ; take 
me home." His hands shook as he put on 
his hat. He was very white. The knuckles 
of his left hand were raw and bleeding. 

The police finally opened a pathway in 
the cheering crowd, and through this 
Cathewe and the rector disappeared. 
Outside, Cathewe hailed a carriage. 

"Cathewe, I have absolutely and posi 
tively ruined my career." 

The rector sank back among the cush 
ions, overwhelmed. His voice was uneven 
and choked. 

"Nonsense 1" cried Cathewe. "What 
else could you do?" 

"I could have passed by the man who 
struck me." 

"Oh, pshaw! A man can not help be 
ing human simply because he wears the 
cloth. It was the bulliest fight I ever 
saw. It was magnificent! They weren't 
in it at any time. And you walloped four 
of 'em, and one was an ex-pugilist. It was 




"They'll call you the righting parson." 

"I shall resign to-morrow. I must be 
gin life all over again. It will be very 

"Resign nothing 1 By the way, I saw 
General Boderick in the crowd." 

"Boderick? Oh, I must hurry. He 
must have my resignation before he has a 
chance to demand it." 

"Don't you worry about him. I saw 
him waving his cane like mad when you 
got up from the floor and smashed that 
second-ward ruffian. He won't dare to 
say anything. His daughter thinks that he 
went up to the club." 

"I shall resign. I am determined upon 

"We'll all have something to say re 
garding that." 

"But the newspapers to-morrow! It 
will be frightful." 



"My "dear fellow, I am about to visit 
each in turn, and you can remain in the 
carriage. I'll take upon myself to fix it 
up so that it will receive scarcely any 
mention at all." 

"My eternal gratitude is yours if you 
can accomplish that." There was a note 
of hope in the rector's voice. 

It was after eleven o'clock when Cam- 
ewe deposited the rector before the par 
sonage. Cathewe was a great favorite 
with the newspaper men, and he had had 
no trouble at all in suppressing the sensa 
tional part of the affair. 

As for the rector, he sank wearily into 
his study chair and buried his face in his 
hands. He had won one fight, but he had 
lost another of far more importance. 
Somehow, he had always just reached the 
promised land to feel the earth slip from 
under his feet. He was a. fdhire. The 


only thing he had to be thankful for was 
that he stood alone in his disgrace. His 
father and mother were dead. Where 
should he go from here? He hadn't the 
slightest idea. He certainly would never 
don the cloth again, for this disgrace 
would follow him wherever he went. He 
was unfitted for mercantile life ; he loved 
outdoors too well. If only he possessed 
the talent of Cathewe, who could go any 
where and live anywhere, without alter 
ing his condition! Well, he would go to 
the far West; he would put his geological 
learning into action ; and by the time the 
little money he had saved was gone, he 
would have something to do. 

Ah, but these things did not comprise 
the real bitterness in his heart He had 
stepped outside the circle, stepped down 
below the horizon of her affairs. True, 
his wildest dreams had never linked his 
20 1 

life with hers; but the nearness to her was 
as life to him. And now all that was 

He reached for his writing-pad and 
wrote his resignation. It was a frank let 
ter, straightforward and manly. He 
sealed it and stole out and deposited it in 
the letter-box just in time for the night 
collector to take it up. He had burned his 
bridges. They would be only too glad to 
get rid of him. He was absently straight 
ening the papers on his table, when a 
small blue envelope attracted his atten 
tion. A faintness seized him as he recog 
nized the delicate handwriting. It was an 
invitation, couched in the most friendly 
terms, to dine with General and Miss 
Boderick the following evening. If only 
he had seen this note earlier! He bent his 
head on his arms, and there was no sound 
save the wind in the chimney. 


"The rector, sir," announced the gen 
eral's valet. 

"Show him in here, James, and light 
up," said the general. 

When the rector entered, the general 
greeted him cheerfully. 

"Sit down, sit down, and let us talk it 
all over," the general began. "I have not 
yet turned over your resignation to the 
trustees ; and yet, in my opinion, this res 
ignation is the best thing possible under 
the circumstances. You were not exactly 
cut out for a minister, though you have 
done more good to the poor than a dozen 
of your predecessors. I wish to apologize 
to you for some thoughts I have harbored 
against you. Wait a minute, wait a min 
ute," as the rector raised a protesting 
hand. "I have called you a milksop be 
cause you always accepted the trustees' 
rebuffs with a meek and lowly spirit. But 


when I saw you lick half a dozen ruffians 
last night (yes, I was there; and while 
I'm a churchman, I am a man and a sol 
dier besides), I knew that I had done 
you an injustice. By the way, are you re 
lated to the late Chaplain Allen of the 
st Regiment?" 

"He was my father," wonderingly. 


"It was out of regard for him that I 
became a divinity student." 

"Parsons sons are all alike. I never 
saw a parson's son who wasn't a limb of 
the Old Scratch. You became a divinity 
student after you left Harvard?" 

The rector sent his host a startled 

"Oh, I have heard all about that epi 
sode ; and I like you all the better for it. 
You should have been a soldier. We used 
to call your father the 'fighting parson.' 


Now, I've a proposition to make to you. 
Do you know anything about mining? 
anything about metals and geology?" 

"Yes, sir; I have had a large reading 
upon those subjects." The rector's heart 
was thumping. 

"A practical knowledge?" 

"As practical as it is possible for a man 
in my position to acquire." 

"Very good. It is a sorry thing to see a 
young man with misdirected energies. 
I'll undertake to direct yours. In January 
I want you to go to Mexico for me." 


"Mexico. I have large mining interests 
there which need the presence of a man 
who can fight, both mentally and phys 
ically. I will pay you a good salary, 
and if you win, some stock shall go with 
the victory. Now don't think that I'm do 
ing this out of sympathy for you. I am 


looking at you from a purely commercial 
point of view. Will you accept?" 

"With all my heart," with a burst of 

"That's the way to talk. We'll arrange 
about the salary after dinner. Now, go 
down to the music-room. You will find 
Miss Boderick there. She will manage to 
entertain you till dinner time; and while 
you are about it, you may thank her in 
stead of me. I shouldn't have thought of 
you but for her. Don't worry over what 
the newspapers have said. In six months 
this affair will have blown over, and you 
will have settled the mining dispute one 
way or the other. You will excuse me 
now, as I have some important letters to 
write. And, mind you, if you breathe 
a word that I was at the fight last 
night ..." 

So the Reverend Richard Allen stole 


quietly down to the music-room. It was 
dark; and he entered softly and sat down 
in a corner at the farther end of the room, 
so as not to disturb the musician. In all 
the years of his life, the life which num 
bered thirty variegated years, he had 
never known such happiness. 

In the study above the general chuckled 
as he wrote, and murmured from time to 
time the word: "Milksop!" 


Los Angeles 

This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 

Form L9-Series 4939 


A A 000025246 o